


The Recruit

by NotRoman (Manniness)



Series: And Prove More Fierce [1]
Category: Nagron - Fandom, Spartacus Series (TV), Spartacus: Blood and Sand, nagron fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, German brothers galore, Gladiator!Nasir, M/M, Nasir POV, Nasir becomes a gladiator, Spartacus is a nice guy, Varro lives, What color are Agron's eyes exactly? (I vote for hazel.), first person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-11-14
Packaged: 2019-01-21 07:53:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12452943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/NotRoman
Summary: A rash, selfless act saves the life of a Roman gladiator called Varro and casts Tiberius (Nasir) into an impossible role.  In order for Quintus Batiatus to satisfy his own political ambitions and gain favor with the magistrate, he must make good on his boast that only his ludus could mold a house slave into a gladiator.WARNINGS: Basically, if you've seen the TV show, you know what kind of triggers to expect.  (I feel that the Starz Spartacus series itself is "Explicit" and, since this fic is a Canon AU, I'm sticking with that rating.)  HOWEVER, I will post warnings (such as DEATH, TORTURE, GORE (violent or medicinal), and SEXYTIMES) at the beginning of corresponding chapters.  FYI, I have ZERO plans to describe Non-Con/NCS in detail.





	1. Varro's Life

**Author's Note:**

> So, it turns out that I have a serious Thing for Gladiator!Nasir. Also, I am seriously effing late to this fandom.  
> Apologies. m( _ _ )m
> 
> I’ve rearranged a lot of events from Spartacus: Blood and Sand, Episode 8 and onwards, so if dialog/events seem shuffled around, that’s because they have been. We start with…
> 
> \--Numerius’ birthday celebration (toga virilis) is in full swing.  
> \--Varro and his wife have reconciled.  
> \--Crixus is almost ready to begin training again (but he was not considered for the “mock-fight” with Spartacus at the party).  
> \--Ashur’s leg is still in a brace. (But everyone still despises him. So no changes there.)  
> \--Agron and Duro are the only recruits of the six purchased for 100 denari to survive the test and take the mark of the Brotherhood. They have not fought in the arena yet, so they do not have private cells. (In this story, they will stay in the “cage” until they’ve survived the arena for the first time… perhaps the “rent” for the private cell is taken out of their earnings, and since they have no money yet, they don’t get that, erm, luxury. Or something. It's an AU. Let's just go with it, k'thanks.)  
> \--Magistrate Titus Calavius has NOT insulted Quintus Batiatus YET. (This will happen "off-screen" much later on.)
> 
> FYI: I have decided that Nasir's dominus is named "Marius" (not to be confused with any other Marius in the series -- I just really needed to name the dude something I could remember how to spell consistently)

Silence.

It rippled-washed-slammed through the celebration.

_****What have I done?** ** _

“Good Batiatus…”  A familiar voice eased words into a room robbed of breath.  “I beg your forgiveness.  Tiberius has clearly lost his mind.”

I had.  What else could have caused my hand to move against the Champion of Capua?

A chuckle from the host of the party was the last sound anyone could have anticipated.  I braced myself.  Frozen.  The gladiator called Spartacus stood over me, sword lowered though I yet clutched a gladius in hand.  Spartacus’ opponent -- a fair haired Roman called Varro -- stared at me from where he yet knelt upon the wooden planks, recognition flickering in his eyes.  There and then gone again before returning.  The gazes of the magistrate and his son, the host and hostess, the celebrants, and my own dominus held me pinned to the stage floor.

I would be struck dead before I could scramble to my feet.

My limbs twitched with purpose.

“Tiberius.  He is your body slave, is he not, Marius?”

No longer.  I was now a mistake to be corrected.  Quickly.  “I will see to him.”

Holding up a hand, Quintus Batiatus spoke with gaiety that surely must have been false, “He merely seeks to enhance the evening’s entertainment!  How shall we oblige?  Shall we see him put to task?”

An approving murmur -- sounds of anticipation -- now pressed upon my ears.

I would die.  If the gods were merciful, I would die quickly, but would Varro be spared?

I glanced to the magistrate’s son.  Numerius.  I made no effort to commit face to memory, but I would never forget the shape of his fist and down-turned thumb.

“Let us have sport!” Batiatus proposed.

“Wait!”  The young man who this celebration was meant to honor spoke, interrupting his host.

I forced my gaze to the floor.  I could not look upon the Romans.  Or Varro.  Or Spartacus.  My death was assured, but my final sight -- that I would choose.

“I find myself taken with madness as well!” the young man declared with delight.  “For I would see this slave molded into a gladiator.  If such a thing can be done?”

Batiatus barked a laugh that teetered on the edge of hysterics.  “Indeed!  Such a thing could only be made possible in the house of Batiatus!”

The crowd joined in, mirthful and thrilled.

My stomach heaved.  Somehow, the bile stayed behind my gritted teeth.

Turning to my dominus, who was likely sweating fit to soak his robes, Batiatus asked, “What are your thoughts on this, dear friend Marius?”

A motion at the corner of my eye; a gesture I recognized.  The dismissive wave of my dominus’ arm sealed my fate.  “Do with him as you will.”

I did not flinch at the sound of heavy footsteps.  The sword was kicked from my grasp.  Rough hands hauled me to my feet.  Soldiers escorted me from the stage.

“What do you say to a rematch?” Batiatus inquired of the guest of honor.  “So that we may once more be thrilled with the glory of combat and then, dear Numerius, we will make plans for your gladiator!”

“My gladiator?”

My stomach rolled at the boyish enthusiasm.  Sounds of elation faded at my back with every step.  I managed to catch my breath just before I was taken down into the dark, dusty stone of the ludus.  The musk of too many men and not enough clean water for bathing, dark torches flickering, iron bars and cell doors.

A cage.

I stumbled inside.

The soldiers departed.

The door remained unlocked.

_****Gods, what have I done?** ** _

“What would you have me do?” a peevish male voice demanded.

I sought defensive position.  There was none.  Only a corner.  With my back to it and my feet braced upon the dirt floor, I might--

Might, what?

It would merely delay the inevitable.

I stood beside the bars.  I would face my fate for if I closed my eyes to it now all pride would be lost to me.

A second voice hissed heated words: “Rise and fight to the final breath or prove the name brother false!”

Two men.  Gladiators.  They turned the corner and, for a moment, I wondered if their quarrel would carry them past me absent taking notice.  I would prefer that.  They were barbarians by their tangled locks of hair.  Larger than Spartacus.  The first man was as large as Varro.  The second man stood larger yet.

“Fuck off, you stupid cock,” the first man retorted, yanking his arm from the other’s grasp.  His dark eyes flashed with a desperation that I knew well: fear, hopelessness, and stubborn resolve in the face of certain failure.

My jaw ached.  I heard my teeth grind together.  I did not loosen my fists.

Mouth tightening into a vicious moue, the second man shook his head.  Exasperation.  Anguish.  Fury.

I prayed they would pass me by.

They turned toward the cage.

Fuck.

“Fuck the gods!”

I stared at the first one -- the one with dark eyes.  Though I made no move, the second placed a hand on the other’s chest as if to protect him.  From me?  The thought was laughable.

“For what purpose are you here?” the second demanded.

“To await instruction from the master of this ludus,” I answered, meeting narrowed eyes.  Were they golden or green?  The color seemed to flicker and fade with the same shadows that danced upon the hewn walls.

Knocking the restraining arm aside and slumping down upon nearest bench, the first man said, “Doctore’s upstairs with the rest of those lucky fucks.”

Lucky fucks, whose company I no longer suffered.

And Varro?  Did he yet live or had my sacrifice been for naught?

“For what purpose do you await instruction?” the second man asked, sending a warning glance at the first.

I would forestall that revelation as long as possible.  The prospect of me being taken on as a recruit by a ludus was… well it would surely sound twice as ridiculous if given voice and I could barely hold the concept steady in my own mind.  If I spoke Batiatus’ brash promises only to discover them withdrawn in my absence and new task assigned to me, I would be labeled a liar.  Scorn and mockery would be the least of my concerns.

I replied stiffly, “One not yet known to me.”

Eyes of indeterminate coloring narrowed further.  “Then how did you come to be here, or did you tumble from the hands of the fucking gods themselves?”

“Agron,” the first man chastised with a weak kick to his shin.  “Cease.  Let the little man rest.”

Little man?  Gods save me.  That did not bode well at all.  I turned toward the bars, keeping Agron and the dark-eyed man at the corner of my vision.

Releasing a long, heavy breath, Agron sank down on the bench.

“Piss off,” the first complained, shoving at his shoulder.  “I claim this one.”

_****I claim this one.** ** _

Panic.  It swelled in my throat until the dark-eyed man elbowed Agron with a pointed look toward the bench along the opposite wall.

Oh.  The bench.  He’d been speaking of the bench and not--wait.   _ ** **The bench.****_

My pulse sped.  There were two benches and a span of open dirt floor between them.  Two benches and I could either lie down in the center of the cage or remain at the bars.

No.  I would not have myself in such disadvantageous position with hulking strangers flanking me for hours upon hours in the dead of night.  But if Agron chose to move, there was nothing I could do to stop him.

I struggled to swallow back my dread.

Agron shook his head again.  Frustrated.  “Duro, you fucking idiot.  Use what remains of your brain for once!”

“Eh?”

Agron tilted his head, chin jutting forward in a meaningful manner, though what that meaning was, I did not know.  Duro seemed to catch it.

“Oh.  Right.”  He yawned.

Agron rolled his eyes and reached up to rub the top of Duro’s head.  “Sleep, brother.”

Duro offered neither complaint nor resistance.  He merely lowered his head to Agron’s shoulder and closed his eyes.  The man was softly snoring within moments.  I envied him.  I envied the ease of his escape from this place and its promise of torment.

Gods.  What had I done?  Why had the magistrate’s son insisted that I live?  That I be trained as a gladiator?  Why had Batiatus encouraged this foolishness?

Removing me from the festivities made sense.  It was the only thing that did considering that Marius held some influence with senators and Batiatus would make effort to win his favor.  My swift removal would ease embarrassment.  However.  In the morning I would surely be taken to market and whipped or stoned or put to cart for--

No.  I would not think it.

I was unaware of my forehead coming to rest upon the iron bars until the rough, gritty edge overwhelmed the throbbing within skull and racing pulse.  I leaned into its bite, my lips pulled back in a snarl.

One breath.

Another.

If given opportunity, I would choose the manner of my death.  It was my only comfort.

Leaning away, I lowered myself upon the unoccupied bench.  Agron was watching me.  I returned the favor, studying his matted, savage mane, noting raised scar upon upper chest -- but a little lower and the blow would have pierced heart.  My gaze followed planes of muscle molded with vicious intent and easily set to deadly purpose.

How many men such as he resided here?

I thought to ask.  I thought to ask Agron to describe Batiatus’ ludus to me: its rooms and chambers, corridors and exits.  But in the end -- wary of misinformation -- I kept my silence.

The torches burned.

Agron dozed, his head tilted against Duro’s.  I leaned my head back against the wall and recalled a similar embrace.  Warmth and comfort.  Stealthy fingers that tickled ribs until I screamed with laughter.  Longer limbs wrestling me upon the carpet.  Rug burns on my elbows and heels as I giggled and squirmed.

_****“Brother!  Ah ha-ha!  Show mercy!”** ** _

_****“You give up too easily, little brother.”** ** _

The squeal of a metal gate opening startled me.  Footsteps approached.  Many footsteps.  The gladiators returning from the celebration above.  I stood, but kept an arm’s length away from the bars.  Spartacus and Varro headed the small group.  I noted the shallow gash on Spartacus’ side.  It bled freely yet he seemed to take no notice.  He stayed a step behind Varro as the Roman paused in front of the bars.

“How do you know me?  What moved you to intervene?”

My fingers curled.  Words jammed together in my throat.

Varro lunged closer, slamming an open palm against the crude grate.  “I will not owe any man additional debt, do you heed me?”

“No,” I snarled.  “I do not heed _****you.****_   I heed the memory of a man who showed me kindness, not the son whose debts saw his house to ruin!”

I should not have spoken.  I should have kept my silence.  I should have nursed my rage and held it close to bosom.

Varro’s scowl lifted; he remembered.  “You are… I know you.”

I lifted my chin.  “My debt to your father is paid.”

“Tiberius--”

“Whatever may come is of little consequence.”

Varro’s fingers curled around the bars.  I considered spitting upon them.

“Gladiators!  To your cells!  Now!”

Spartacus gripped Varro’s shoulder and the Roman allowed himself to be led away.  I remained standing; my anger a living, breathing beast that climbed-and-crawled over flesh, clawing-and-carving into skin.

A tall, dark-skinned man -- a Nubian, perhaps -- of many scars and shaved head paused in front of me.  “Tiberius.  I am Doctore.”

I somehow squeezed out a response: “Sir.”

“Take rest with Agron and Duro.  Tomorrow, you will be summoned and your training discussed with Dominus.”

I nodded.  Once.  Every muscle in my body throbbed, ached to lash out.  How I longed for strength like Duro’s, like Agron’s, like Doctore’s.

Absent that, I would accept death.

With a gesture to a hovering guard, Doctore indicated that the door be locked.  A scrape and sharp clang saw it done and, when they moved down the corridor, I allowed myself to breathe again.  My cage was secure, innumerable gladiators -- rough and unknown men -- could not touch me tonight.  I need only concern myself with Duro and Agron.  Brothers.  Both of whom were staring at me.

Duro, having awakened at the return of the men, gawped and fumbled, “What--fucking--what fucking training?”

I sank down onto the bench again.  My lips twisted into a parody of a grin.  “I shall learn of it on the morrow.”

“You went to Varro’s aid?” Agron asked quietly.

“Break words with Varro if you seek to satisfy curiosity.”  At the tightening of the man’s sour frown, I added, “I was gripped by madness.  My words would be of little sense.”

“They hold no fucking sense now.”

It was just as well, then, that I kept my own counsel.  I forced myself to lay down on the bench, presenting my back to the brothers.  I did not expect to sleep, but I did not seek to keep them from theirs.  Sharing a locked cell with two short-tempered and violent men was not something I desired.

Though I was certain slumber would spurn me, it did not.  I slept.  I opened my eyes at the gritty shriek of crude key within ill-used lock.

Doctore stood in the corridor as the ludus guard gestured Duro and Agron to leave.  “Wait here,” Doctore ordered me.

The door was left unlocked.

I fidgeted, belly hollow and thoughts turbulent.

Surely, the magistrate’s son had reconsidered.  Surely, Batiatus would have found a way to convince the young man that I could never be a gladiator.  Surely…

A figure passed beside the bars and I jumped.

“Apologies,” Spartacus said, voice quiet.

My response was as wooden as the bowls and spoons he carried: “None required.”

He tilted his head toward the unlocked door.  “May I enter?”

I was reluctant, but I nodded.  If the Champion of Capua desired words, I would satisfy my curiosity as to his thoughts.

He crossed the threshold, leaving the door wide, and moved close enough to hold out the bowl just beyond my reach.  Slowly, I stood -- muscles protesting a long night upon hard stone -- and took it.  I was careful not to allow our skin to touch.

Spartacus moved back to rest upon the bench that the brothers had used the night before.  I sat only after he was settled.

“I am called Spartacus.”

This, of course, I knew.  But introductions are what they are, and their format rarely varied.  “Tiberius.”

“Tiberius.”  Spartacus looked to the contents of his bowl, fidgeting with his spoon.  Stirring, mixing, folding the porridge with restless motions in undecipherable pattern.  “Gratitude for the interruption.”

I shook my head.  Tiredly, I admitted, “I did not come between Varro and your sword for your sake.”

“You did not.  Yet I benefit equally.  I call Varro friend.”  Spartacus snagged my gaze and admitted, “Batiatus would have given the order.”

Yes, he would have.  Calavius had promised reimbursement of Varro’s worth in coin -- such an offer Batiatus could not afford to refuse and expect to secure the magistrate’s favor.  The realization had come to me moments before I had seen burgeoning betrayal in the champion’s face and dawning horror in Varro’s.  Their silent call I had answered absent hesitation, slipping through the gap between my dominus and another guest, scooping up dropped sword and--

“You did not kill me,” I answered, the memory of steel striking steel making my arms tingle not unlike awakening from numbness.

I possessed a blurred memory of swinging at Spartacus’ sword, driving it aside, and then the champion’s blade had been descending toward me.  With Varro between us, I’d lurched backward, slipped upon edge of heel and landed hard.  Spread out upon my back, dazed.  Spartacus had not pursued.  Varro had blinked at me in shock.  And, in that moment, I had accepted the truth that my life had ended.

I asked one favor of this man: “Did you hear any mention of my fate?”

“No.  But you will not face it alone.”

With eyes narrowed, I doubted him in silence.

He explained haltingly, “There was another ludus slave.  A boy who took his own life following mistreatment.  I would not have the same become of you.”

Protection.  This was what Spartacus had come to offer?  Yes, it appeared so.

By the gods.

I dived into sweet, blissful waves of relief, but its tide passed quickly.  I could not expect to survive the coming days.  Any optimism at all would be foolish.  “Generous words,” I answered, “but even the Champion of Capua cannot keep such a promise.”

Spartacus frowned.

Through gritted teeth, I reminded him, “You were nearly commanded by your dominus to take the life of a friend for the entertainment of the magistrate’s son.”

The gladiator stiffened.

“We are both slaves.”  I sighed heavily.  “Nothing good will come of it if you attempt to put yourself between me and the will of our dominus.  As I said, my debt to Varro’s father is paid.”

“He was kind to you.”

I closed my eyes, remembering an older man of gradually weakening eyesight and trembling hands.  I had been raised and trained to be those for him, tending to his correspondence and reading favorite works to him as his health failed.  I had watched, powerless, as he had been forced to sell his material treasures -- art, heirlooms, furniture, fine robes, and precious books -- and then finally his slaves, all fairly treated and possessing genuine affection for their master, one by one, in order to pay his son’s debts.

Truthfully, I had no quarrel with Varro over my fate.  I had been purchased by a wealthy man -- one of the Roman elite -- and my competence in tending to both villa household and its business had gained me position of body slave within my first year of service.  There had been no warmth or kindness, but I’d held position and respect.

All discarded in a moment, in a gesture, in the angle of a thumb.

Spartacus cleared his throat.  Again, I jerked.  I had forgotten his presence.

“Eat.  Training will begin soon.”

I ate.  Spartacus drew close enough to take my empty bowl.

He left.  I waited.

When Doctore came, I stood.

“Follow,” he ordered and I did.

The office of Quintus Batiatus was not an unpleasant place, but it was strange to hear the men in the yard below all the way up here when I’d not caught a whisper of the outdoor activities from the cage.  One man shouted at regular intervals, perhaps directing some sort of regimented and repetitive exercise.

“Good Doctore,” Batiatus began, “tell me you can make something of this pathetic little fuck that will satisfy Numerius.”

“He is in good health.  Young.  And quick.  He will perform well and die with honor.”

My new dominus groused, “Yes, I suppose that’s all we can expect.”

I had long since ceased flinching beneath the glare of a Roman, but Batiatus’ gaze burned into my skin.

“And I may yet wish I’d accepted reimbursement for a fallen man rather than gain this fucking--!”  Both words and gestures failed him.  The lanitsa heaved a blustery sigh.  “By the gods, I would order you to put on a farcical show if the reputation of this noble house was not at stake.”

Doctore warned: “Satisfactory effort will take time to prepare, Dominus.”

“Yes, yes, I understand!  But we are constrained by impatient whims of a fucking boy.”  Batiatus’ resentment dripped as if splattered upon the office walls.  “Time cannot be spared… overmuch.”

Batiatus stood from his desk and paced from wall to window and back again.  Though the man had stared at me during the discussion, I had not been addressed.  Not until-- “You are called Tiberius.”

“Yes, Dominus.”

Even this seemed to irritate the man.  He scratched at his scalp with rapid, furious movements.  “I’m hard pressed to think of a name more ill suited for the arena.  No, no.  When you fall--”  He pointed to me.  “--you will not disgrace a good name carried by so many proud Romans.”  Batiatus looked to Doctore.  “Give him a barbarian name.  Anything will suffice.  I won’t have a child’s toy bring shame to this house.”

“Yes, Dominus,” Doctore agreed.

We were dismissed with an impatient wave.  As we moved through the halls toward the stairs, Doctore quietly probed, “Do you understand instruction given?”

I did.  I recited dutifully, “I will learn to fight and to bleed and to die in whatever manner does not dishonor the house of Batiatus.”

A hand pressed against my bare shoulder.  Doctore’s steps paused, and I looked up, surprised to see a slight smile on the man’s face.  “Yes.  You do understand.  The magistrate and his son must be pleased with your skills and performance.  In that way, you will also please Dominus.”

“I will die moments after setting foot upon the sands of the arena.”

“You may die upon the sands here.”

A private match.  Yes, I may meet my end in the ludus yard.  I was almost moved to cast a prayer to the gods, but I knew it would do little good.

“The manner of your death will be determined by opponent or by editor,” Doctore said.  “The name you hold when that moment comes I leave to you.”

Kindness.  How odd to find it here with a man whose body displayed nothing but proof of cruelty and hardship.

I considered my choices for a moment though my hesitation was not one of doubt, but of joy.  I allowed the unfamiliar sensation to fill me up.  I had obeyed command my whole life as Tiberius.  Now I was given opportunity to live and fight and die for something real.  Someone who had once been real, who might be real again.

_****I huddled beneath the cloying shade of folds of fabric, elbows and knees tucked in as I bit my lip to hold back giggles.  My brother would never think to look for me here!** ** _

_****“Nasir!  Where are you?”** ** _

_****My hands cupped over my smile.  My cheeks hurt.  I loved this game.** ** _

_****A teasing sing-song: “I will find you… Nasir!”** ** _

“Nasir,” I told Doctore.

“From where do you hail, Nasir?”

“Syria.”

Doctore nodded.  “The Syrian Nasir.  That is how you will be called when you fall.”

We descended into the ludus and my training began.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if I reference any points already used in another story. I would very much like to mention other fics (whether I've read them or not).
> 
> Here is one Gladiator!Nasir fic: "Sound the Alarm" by voices_in_my_head @ https://archiveofourown.org/works/751758
> 
> Apologies for just dropping into the fandom like this. I hope the story is well received.  
> ~Manny (NotRoman)


	2. The First Day of Training

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos and just generally welcomed this story.  
> Gratitude! (^_^)

 

Laughter.

Snickers and chuckles and sneers.

I was not surprised.  Even Spartacus had assumed I would be the next ludus slave.  Yet here I was, hauling a wooden beam from side wall to cliff’s edge, back and forth, harness ropes sawing over left and right shoulders, lungs pumping in time with swift stride.

This was the primary task taken on by recruits, Doctore had told.  “Do not ask to spar with those who carry the mark of the Brotherhood.  If they offer, you may accept with my permission.”

If only that consideration were a kindness.  It was not.  It was merely a measure to ensure that I did not die before Numerius, the magistrate’s son, permitted it.

Part of me wondered why I was even bothering.  The cliff’s edge was an open invitation to escape.

And yet… I was now called Nasir.  I would see what manner of man this Nasir was before he departed for the afterlife.

“Little man!”

I startled out of my musings to find Agron looking my way.  He was sparring with Duro, hand held up to stall their play.  Given that Duro was panting lightly and attempting to ease a cramp in his side, Agron was fairly safe from retaliation.

“Agron?” I replied absent breaking rhythm.

“Lower weight in hips.”  He bent his knees in demonstration.  “Tuck elbows.”

I mimicked him.

“Better, yes?”

It was.  “Gratitude.”

He nodded.  “And keep sense of surroundings!”  With that, he dropped his hand and lunged for Duro, catching his brother off-guard.

The man’s yelp of surprise made me smile.  Perhaps the others were right to call him a pup.  With those big brown eyes and startled yips, he very well could be.  Of course, even a pup could best me.

Jaw clenched, I made a turn at the wall, shifted the rough rope upon my shoulders, and began yet another pass.

Keep sense of surroundings.  Good advice.  As I watched the gladiators spar, I realized that they each fought in slightly different manner.  Was there a pattern to each?  A favored series of attack?  A unique weakness to be exploited?  At some point, I would face some or all of these men, would I not?  I had already wasted half the afternoon dwelling on my own anger and pain.

Determination and observation would serve me better.

My entire body was shuddering with fatigue by the time Doctore cracked the whip, releasing everyone to indulge in evening meal, bath, and whatever pursuits could be had in such a dreary, dismal place.  As it was unlikely I would be permitted to eat before anyone else, I took my time finishing the lap.  Gazes -- speculative, curious, hostile -- burned my skin, driving me toward the far wall where the other beams rested.  I carefully placed mine alongside its brethren.  The rope had rubbed my hands red.  Raw.

Fuck.  Death would be easier than this.

I slouched against the wall, forcing an inanimate object to support _****my****_  weight.  A small revenge, but I enjoyed it with a smile.

“Surroundings, little man.”

Drawing in a slow breath, I straightened.  “I heard your approach.”

Agron glared at me in reprimand.  “You trust easily.”

I was honestly too exhausted to make an effort to appear otherwise.  Of course I did _****not****_ trust.  But what good would it do to be openly hostile to the two men that I shared a cage with?  My energies would be better served in paying attention: Doctore may be training me to die well, but he was also capable of showing me what I would need to do to survive.  If I but opened my eyes, I might learn more than he had been given leave to teach.

With a shrug, I told Agron, “Believe whatever suits you.”

Duro snickered.  “He usually does.”

Agron reached over and whapped Duro on the back of the head.

“Ow…” he whined.  “Goatfuck.”

I snorted.  Against all expectation, my education was ever expanding.

“Agron.  Duro.”

We looked up to see Spartacus standing just under the veranda, bowl in one hand.  He stared at the brothers for a long moment before turning his attention to me: “If you hope to eat, now would be the time.”

Walking was not easy, but if I did not eat, I would be that much weaker on the morrow.  Spartacus frowned slightly as I twisted and slid between Agron and Duro -- as if they were a pair of potted trees -- and made my way toward the shaded hall.

It irritated me greatly that I took comfort in Spartacus’ presence so near the cook pot and water barrel, but I could not ignore the stares of the men at my approach.  I stopped for water first.

Agron and Duro moved past me to collect their bowls.  I accepted mine from the scowling, one-armed cook.  And now I was presented choice.  Duro was giving me a friendly smile.  He cocked his head and gestured for me to join him and Agron, who was scowling in the direction of a cluster of empty seats.

But I could also choose to sit alone… and tempt fate.

Or perhaps--

“Tiberius,” Spartacus said, “I would have words.”

I turned and corrected him, “Nasir.  I am now called Nasir.”

Someone grunted with disgust.  “Another fucking Syrian.”

I did not recognize the voice, but as I scanned the men, I found like sentiments reflected in their expressions.

Fuck the gods.

Spartacus merely nodded.  “Nasir.”

With a sigh, I allowed that speaking with Spartacus was the smarter strategy.  The Bringer of Rain and Champion of Capua was still offering some measure of protection, even if it was by simple association.  Besides, to turn away from his request could be taken as a slight against a man of his elevated position.  There was no decision to be made.

I nodded farewell to Duro, turning away before Agron’s eyes flicked my way.  “Champion.  What do you wish to discuss?”

Nothing in particular, as it turned out.  Spartacus seemed content to have me seated at his side.  Varro was occupied with a game of dice some distance away in the open hall.  I caught Duro’s eye more than once and he seemed relieved every time I returned it.  Agron alternated his glare between his meal and Spartacus, who inquired idly:

“Do you count the German brothers as friends?”

“We share a cage.  I have no reason to be hostile.”  Yet.

“Once you fight in the arena, you’ll receive your own cell.”

“Hm.”  I looked down into the stew.  Perhaps it was best that I could not identify the contents.

Spartacus paused and tilted his head in contemplation.  “You do not take comfort in the words?”

“They are well received.”  I was so tired.  While I had never entertained fanciful thoughts of life unending, it was wearying to the spirit to know that in a week, possibly two, I would be dead by the blade.  For the sake of a Roman boy’s entertainment… because Batiatus sought favor with the father.

“You do not accept your fate.”

“But I do,” I argued.

“No, you accept death.”

“And what ought I embrace?”

“Pain.  Embrace pain.”

“I’m no fucking gladiator.”

Spartacus nodded, his lips curving.  “Not yet.”

“Not ever.  Let us be candid.”

“Die then, if that is your wish.  Or survive.  If you find that the latter appeals, seek me out.  I would provide instruction.”

Despite my shock, I muttered automatically, “Gratitude.”

“If nothing else, you might beat the odds.”  He squinted at his spoon.  “As I did.”

I quirked a brow in question and Spartacus thrust his chin toward the activity surrounding the dice game.  A frown pulled at my brow on sight of a man who was not a gladiator, not with that brace upon his leg.

Spartacus provided warning: “That man stands as the reason Syrians are not trusted in this ludus.  Ashur.”

With a shake of my head, I turned my attention toward the other men.  Sense of surroundings, Agron had said.  I would not forget.  “It matters not from where he hails.  I carry no clear recollections of my homeland.”

Spartacus did not ask of my past, for which I was grateful.

I said suddenly, “What is the big man with shaved head called?  The one with the dice?”

“Rhaskos.  From Gallia.”

I noted absently, “He favors an attack from above, then blow to thigh or knee.”

Spartacus chuckled.  “You’ve been watching.  That’s good.”  Spartacus gestured to another man.  “Liscus.  Also from Gallia.  Favors a left-to-right slash.”

We finished the meal slowly; I absorbed as much as I could about each man’s preferred pattern of attack.

When Spartacus announced his intent to bathe, I reluctantly rose from my seat.  Already my muscles had begun to settle and stiffen.  I was not looking forward to a night spent on stone and dirt and the pain that would greet me in the morning.

Returning our dishes to the cook brought me within range of Ashur.  Would he call out to me?  Or perhaps he would be indifferent to the presence of a countryman.  I kept my face averted and found myself looking into Agron’s eyes.  Perhaps they were more green than golden brown… or was there a hint of blue and gray?  The sun was setting and in the softer light he seemed almost--

“Syrian!  I called you three times, friend.  You do not break words with a brother?”

Fuck.  How quickly I’d forgotten today’s lesson.  Sense of fucking surroundings.

Looking over my shoulder, I discovered Ashur grinning at me.  His face held an expression of warmth… yet I had done nothing to earn it.  Unlike Spartacus, who genuinely seemed to desire my survival at no additional compensation, this man held intentions.  Greed, ambition, or lust.  The three were so similar and his expression so carefully arranged that it was difficult to be sure which claimed his heart.

This man was far more Roman than Syrian.

I said, “Apologies.  I speak the common tongue.”

“Not that of your homeland?  You _****are****_  Syrian, are you not?”

Despite the teasing tone, I did not thaw.  “I am Syrian insofar that I am neither Roman nor Gaul nor Thracian nor German nor Celt nor…”

“Yes, yes, I know your meaning.  Yet we might speak of familiar comforts of home.”

“I recall little,” I informed him and then, perhaps too bluntly, excused myself: “Apologies.  The day has been long.  Rest beckons.”

“I will not keep you, but I hope we may break words again soon.”

“Nasir,” Agron called quietly.  He’d stood.  Duro was just reaching his side after returning their bowls to the cook.  “Duro and I are for the baths.  You’ll want to stretch well before taking rest.”

Accepting the invitation, I followed them into the dim corridor.  Spartacus shadowed us.  The baths were as foul as I had expected.  Stale water.  The scent of sweat and male.  Unscented oil.  Rough, stained cloths.  Battered strigils.  I removed my subligaria, rinsed methodically with water drawn from the cache, and reached for the oil.  The feel of the strigil in my hand and its familiar path over skin was almost soothing.  It would have been easy to succumb to trance, but I would not be caught unaware _****again****_  this day.

It was through this awareness that I felt Agron’s gaze following my progress as he awkwardly tried to imitate my movements with his own strigil.

“What land do you and your brother hail from?” I asked, eyes still upon task.

“Um.”

I glanced up briefly at the hesitation.  Such was unexpected from his lips.  As was the gaze focused upon my neck.  Ah, the collar.  Doctore had removed it before I’d stepped out onto the sands.  I had not yet seen myself in glass, but there must be a pale band ringing my throat.  More than once today, the sting of the wind on my sweaty, tender skin had sent a shock through me: this was real.  I was training to be a gladiator in the ludus of lanista Quintus Lentulus Batiatus.  This was my life.

Agron scowled at the strigil that he scraped impatiently and artlessly over his arms.  “My brother and I come from the lands east of the Rhine.”

Germans, indeed.  Spartacus had spoken truth.  “Have you other countrymen here?”

“Donar.”  Again, I felt Agron’s gaze slide in my direction.  “You would not seek your own kin?”

“Memories of homeland are so sparse as to be little more than shadows of dreams.  I do not long for what I cannot recall.”

“And before you came to this place?”

I smirked, sparing the man a playful look.  “What are the rumors?”

He huffed out a breath.  Yes, I’d caught him.

Grinning, I replied, “It is too soon for me to say; there must be some who have not placed their wager yet.”

Agron’s laugh was… it was delightful.  Soft and rolling.  He smiled with strong, good teeth, revealing dimples on his scruffy cheeks.

I was still uncertain of the color of his eyes.

“I hate these fucking things,” Duro groused, attempting to reach over his shoulder with the strigil.

“You are a fucking child,” Agron grumbled, rolling his eyes and shoving Duro around.  He slapped a handful of oil on Duro’s back with enough force to leave behind a red hand print.

Duro flinched and screeched, “Shit!  You’re not tanning a fucking hide!”

“I may yet this night,” came the growled response.

I laughed, wiping a stray droplet of oil from my cheek.

“May I offer aid?”

Twisting toward the voice, I schooled my expression.  Varro stood beside me, strigil in hand.  Varro, a Roman -- a free-born man -- and a gladiator of status, was offering to attend me.  I could not refuse without forcing the man to actively despise me, thereby creating an awkward situation for Spartacus, who offered alliance.

While some part of me desired to press fortune -- perhaps it was the memory of gladius clutched in my inexpert grasp -- I tapped it down.  With a nod, I accepted.  “Well received.”

As Varro applied oil -- much more gently than Agron seemed prone to -- and began scraping away the dirt and sweat and clinging rope fibers, he cleared his throat.  “My father died last winter.”

“Condolences,” I breathed around my sudden heartache.

“I was not certain you knew.”

“I did not.  Gratitude for breaking words.”  Now I would be able to mourn my first master… and perhaps soon greet him in the afterlife carrying news of his son.

“It is I who owe words of gratitude.  My wife and son will wish to meet you.”

“A wife and son.  Blessings,” I replied.  I considered urging him to arrange a swift visit, but said only, “When I see your father in the afterlife, I will tell of your family.”

The strigil paused upon my ribs.  “Tiberius--”

“Nasir.”

Surprisingly, the correction came not from me but from Agron, who was clearly eavesdropping despite scraping a squirming Duro’s back with ruthless efficiency.

“Nasir,” Varro began again, “gratitude.  For timely intervention.”

I laughed, the sound dry and absent mirth.  “Distraction was sufficient?”

Varro chuckled.  “Yes.  It was.  Spartacus and I sparred until the fucks got bored and allowed us to end demonstration with a draw.  Numerius -- the magistrate’s son -- was additionally distracted by Batiatus shoving tongue in ass.”

“Ugh.”  I shuddered.

Another helpless chuckle.  “Be glad _****we****_  have no political ambition.”

“It matters not in my case.”

“Learn from Spartacus and myself.  We offer assistance.”

Fuck the gods.  Either I could accept or have it shoved down my throat.  If both Spartacus and Varro were going to insist, then I would allow it.  It would not make a difference in the end.  Alive, I would be a Roman’s plaything as all of us were playthings, Spartacus and Varro included.  Dead, I would be free.

Death comes to us all.  Even Rome could not deny us that.

Resigned, I nodded.  “Well received, Varro.  Please accept my apologies for my temper and hurtful words.”

“Given that you’d more or less nailed yourself to the barrel--”

I flinched.

“--well, a man ought to be permitted to speak his mind.”

“Nailed to a barrel?” Duro muttered.

Agron growled at him to mind his own fucking business.

Duro retorted cheekily, “To what end?  You’re listening as well.”

My breath escaped on a sighing, silent laugh.  These two brothers, Agron and Duro -- I should not take comfort in their presence.

At the celebration, I should not have released gladius from grasp while I had yet drawn breath.  I should not have answered the dawning anguish in Varro’s eyes at Numerius’ denial of mercy.

Numerous mistakes, one after the other, yet I could not regret any of them.

Not yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Agron cannot NOT be a big brother, right? He’s got to show Nasir what he’s doing wrong during training.
> 
> Also, I think Agron has really got a thing for spitfires.
> 
> And, I love Duro. Just in case that hasn't been made obscenely clear yet.
> 
> "Nailed to a barrel" is one of the most unpleasant ways to torture someone to death that I have ever heard of. This is what I get for Googling "Roman torture methods" >>>  
> https://listverse.com/2016/11/22/10-horrifying-tortures-used-in-ancient-rome/
> 
> I hope you're still enjoying the story! (^_^)


	3. Brotherly Aid

 

Focus.

Agron stared.  He tried not to; I would credit him with valiant effort, but his gaze -- laurel green, golden brown, or pale blue -- returned to me again and again as I scraped the filth from Varro’s back and Agron endured a skinning from his brother’s hands.

“I will see you on the sands tomorrow,” Varro vowed and offered his arm.  I clasped it, marveling at his determination to waste time and effort on a losing bet.  Perhaps it was in his nature to gamble and the man simply could not restrain himself.

I hoped that one day it would work in his favor.

The thought brought me up short as I scooped water from the bath to cleanse my feet.  Where had my anger gone?  The night before I had nearly spat upon the man, but now I clasped his arm as brother.

Perhaps I was simply too tired to hold ill feelings.

And, I could be generous: I could entertain the possibility that my beloved master may not have sold his slaves to pay his son’s debts but to celebrate his marriage and new life.  If that were so, Varro’s father would not have departed this life sick at heart.  I could ask for nothing more.

Feet rinsed, I climbed into the water.  It was barely warm.  My muscles were already protesting.

Come morning, I would surely wish myself dead rather than move from where I lay.

Duro splashed into the water beside me without bothering to wash his feet first.  No wonder the water was so cloudy and sand stirred from the corners of the bath.

“Stretch out, little man.  Before the baths crowd.”

“Pardon?  Stretch in what manner?”

As Duro took it upon himself to provide demonstration, bending his limbs this way and that, Agron smirked from the opposite side of the bath.

“Not too far,” Duro was saying, “or you’ll tear the muscle and-- what are you fucking laughing at?”

Agron shook his head at the challenge and goaded, “A poor fuck well-versed in easing himself through defeat.”

Duro sent a splash of water toward his brother.  “Says a poor fuck who takes solace with his own hand!”

“I save coin.”

Duro rolled his eyes.  “You save face.  The only endurance you can claim is with a sword made of steel.”

Agron kicked him, churning the water.  “You would battle with cock in hand in the arena.”

“And I would have better odds than you!”

“You will have no odds at all if you cannot keep your fucking feet.”

“By the gods!  Suck a cock and leave me in peace.”

I lowered my head to my hands.  Silent laughter shook my body so hard I knew I must be making waves in the bath.

“Fuck the gods, Duro!”

“What?  Oh, fuck.  Apologies, Nasir.  Don’t fret; I’ll protect you from the cock-sucking oaf.”

Agron snarled.

The need for breath had me dropping my hands and wheezing helplessly.  I was in a fucking ludus, bathing with barbarians, laughing fit to burst my seams.  By the gods, it had been a long time since I’d last felt such mirth.  That I would find it here of all places boggled the mind.

With tearing eyes, I looked from Duro’s cocky grin to Agron’s clenched jaw.  The difference in their temperament was remarkable.  I could only remember the desire to be just as strong and brave as my older brother.  Yet Agron was so quick to anger and Duro so ready to tease.

“Gratitude, Duro,” I rasped.  “I can think of no worse fate than a thorough cock-sucking.”

Duro roared with laughter.  Agron’s eyes widened.  I grinned and his smile was like sunlight spearing through storm clouds.

I chose to lie upon the floor that night.  It was marginally softer than the stone benches and, given Agron and Duro’s continued kindness, I could not bring myself to deny them room to stretch out and take rest.

A touch upon my shoulder woke me while it was yet dark and silent.

“Agron?” I breathed.

“Dawn approaches.  You must stretch again.  Before setting foot in the yard.”

“Must I.”

Agron’s silhouetted head nodded.  “When we first arrived, Duro suffered much in the mornings.”

“Only Duro?” I returned with quirked brow.

He chuckled and I prayed to the gods that this man continued to be a friend.  Few things in life had ever given me so much visceral joy as the sound and sight of his genuine humor.

“I may have suffered a measure of discomfort as well.”

In that case, I would be in agony during the day’s training.  To aid in testing this theory, I shifted--

And struggled to bite back a curse.  A bit of it may have leaked out through my bared teeth.  Agron offered another of his soft, rolling chuckles.  For such a large, blustery man, he produced the most authentic, boyish giggles.

Another touch -- fingertips on my bare shoulder.

“I would help shoulder weight…?”

“I shall manage.”

The touch withdrew and Agron stepped away.  With a sigh, I pushed myself upright and underwent another series of stretches.

By the time the guards made their rounds, I could move with much less discomfort, but knowing what awaited me in the yard, I did not bother to hope that the stiff, cramping muscles would loosen anytime soon.

Embrace the pain.  It was Spartacus’ advice.  I would endeavor to try.

I broke my fast seated with Duro and Agron.  Spartacus and Varro came to join us.  Then a sixth man, Donar.  He kicked Duro under the table.  “Whelp.  You and your dog of a brother ruin our newest recruit.”

“We follow Spartacus,” Duro defended, confusing me.

Donar rolled his eyes.  “Champion of Capua takes fucking pet.”

My eyes narrowed.  One day, I would see Donar’s face in the sand, knocked there by my hand.  Yes, I would.  Reply slipped out from between my lips absent permission: “He’s fortunate to have one such as you, Donar.”

The man blinked.

Spartacus huffed a laugh into his bowl.  Varro slapped the older German on the shoulder as Duro wheezed and Agron grinned fit to split his face in two.

Varro helpfully informed him, “Our Syrian bites.”

Donar snorted and sent a wry smile my way.  “Warning fucking heeded.”

Agron’s hand was warm on my shoulder, giving me a quick, friendly shake before tilting bowl to lips and shoveling the rest of his porridge into mouth.  Given the heat rising in my cheeks, I quickly mimicked him, hiding face and filling belly in singular effort.

Effort I resolved to put toward restraining tongue.  What had possessed me to hurl insult at a senior gladiator?  For years, I had kept my opinions tightly reined.  Had something broken within me the night of the celebration?  When I had struck aside Spartacus’ sword, had I also severed the bonds that tied my tongue?

I could think of no other explanation.

The crack of the whip -- the signal to begin training -- was welcome.  I readily turned my attention to lifting a wooden training sword for the first time: it was heavier than expected.  When I frowned down at the blade, juggling it awkwardly in my grasp, Agron said, “Iron core.”

“Correct grip,” Spartacus spoke, curling his fingers around the pommel of his own sword with deliberate slowness.

I made the necessary adjustments.

With another crack of Doctore’s whip, we began.

First position.  Lunge.  Retreat.  Lunge.  Block.  First position.

The morning bled away and with it my strength.  My hand ached from gripping the pommel, my arms shook, and my knees wobbled, but I kept pace between Agron and Duro with Spartacus and Varro at my back.  I still could not fathom their reasons for providing a buffer between me and the other men.

I considered Donar’s words and could only conclude that my experience in this ludus had been unusual so far.  I resolved to ask Agron when we took midday rest.  The morning exercises stretched out with every passing moment.  It was a relief to take up the beam again.

My muscles strained.  Sweat stung my eyes as I surveyed the gladiators: I memorized their preferred attacks, yes, but also the type of blow most likely to connect with flesh.

_****Crack!** ** _

Midday, at last.

Hissing at my own trembling limbs, I clutched the wooden bowl with two shaking hands.  Thankfully, Agron said nothing about my weakness.  Duro, however…

He poked my twitching arm.  “You squirm like a landed fish!”

“You eat like a legless dog.”  Again, my tongue had loosened absent permission.  I was too exhausted to scold myself for the lapse.

Agron laughed, charmed.  “You’ve gained another older brother, Duro.”

“What?  No!”  Duro looked completely horrified.

I laughed so hard my shoulder bumped Agron’s arm.  A very solid arm.  Which belonged to a friend.  One of several which, against all odds, I could claim.  I was immediately reminded of my queries.

“From Donar’s remarks, I assume the treatment of recruits largely differs from what I have known.”

“You hold advantage,” Duro answered before stuffing a heaping spoonful between his lips.  A bit of juice dribbled over his chin.

Agron continued his thought: “You set foot in this ludus with both Spartacus and Varro in your debt.”

I shook my head on a sigh and steadied myself to take my first bite.  Grip tight upon spoon, I managed it.  Barely.  “As I spoke before, there is no debt.  Varro’s father was a kind man and an attentive protector.”

How I missed him.

“You served inside his house.  Within rather than without.”

I glanced up at Agron’s remark.

He pointed to my throbbing, rope-chafed hands with his empty spoon.  My fingers tightened upon bowl and handle.

“Soft hands,” he explained.

There was no point in denying the obvious.  The forming blisters and raw spots revealed the truth of Agron’s words.  “I was his body slave for some years.”

Duro let out an uncomfortable chuckle.  “Best keep that to yourself here.”

It wasn’t until I saw how Agron’s jaw clenched with what could only be rising anger that I realized they did not understand a body slave’s duties.  That was quickly remedied.  “No, I was clerk and personal assistant.”  I huffed at their confusion.  “A body slave does not necessarily attend his master’s cock.”

Agron was looking at me curiously.  “You know letters and numbers.”

“Very well,” I admitted with some pride.

“Then how did you come to be in this fucking place?” Duro bleated.

Glancing around, I sighed.  “Perhaps all bets have been placed?”

Agron saw the humor.  “No one will hear of it from us.”  He glanced at Duro, who readily nodded.

“Numerius, the son of Magistrate Calavius,” I mumbled, “called for Spartacus to spar with Varro at celebration.  Spartacus stood victor and Batiatus gave Numerius the charge of editor.  An honor and courtesy, but a gesture empty of true purpose.  Or so I assumed.”

They both nodded.  This much had made the rounds within the ludus.

I explained, “When he gave the order for death -- when it was clear Batiatus would not go against the boy’s whim -- I took up dropped sword and struck Spartacus’ blade aside.”

“You did this in front of the Romans?” Duro choked out.  Apparently, neither Spartacus nor Varro -- nor the other half dozen men who had stood witness -- had detailed the manner of the interruption I had caused.  Or word of it had simply not reached Duro and Agron yet.

My teeth ground together.  My lips pursed and stretched in agitation.  “I gave it no thought.  I sought only to see weapon away from Varro’s neck.”

“You did that,” Agron did not ask.

I nodded anyway.  “Batiatus called for me to… _****contribute****_  to the night’s entertainment.”  The tortures Roman minds concocted were hideous and varied.  I forced those thoughts aside, my skin crawling.  “But then Numerius asked if it would be possible to… to…”  I still could not speak the words.

Agron stiffened.  “To make a gladiator from a house slave.”

Duro guffawed loud enough to turn heads.  “Agron, you fucking moron.  That’s not--”

Catching sight of my bowed head and clenched fists, Duro swallowed back his words.

“Fuck the gods.  That’s why you’re here?”

“I am here,” I answered slowly, “to satisfy Numerius’ curiosity and enable Batiatus to please the magistrate.  To further political ambition.  I must learn how to die honorably.”

Duro stared hard at the dregs of his stew.  “Twisted fucking Roman shits.  Fuck.  That’s why Spartacus and Varro offered to spar with you.  Fuck!”

I drew a shuddering breath and, somehow, I was not surprised by the warm, roughened hand that slid over my jaw to my neck.  Turning, I faced Agron.  His eyes were green.  Mostly green.  And completely determined.

“We will aid you in this, Nasir.”

No amount of aid would be enough.  “I do not know how much time I have to learn…”

“Seven days.”  Duro explained as his brother’s touch slowly withdrew from my skin.  “That’s how many days we were given to prepare for the test.”

“The test?”

“It’s combat, man against man.  One fight.”  Duro clearly meant to reassure me.  He failed.

Agron speculated, tapping his fingers upon the table in rapid rhythm absent thought: “If Batiatus seeks favor with the magistrate, he may give additional time.  A poor show pleases no one.”

I contributed, “Batiatus boasted that only his ludus could make a house slave worthy of gladiatorial combat.  He considered committing fraud, but it would be quickly revealed were I sent to the arena.”  And should that occur, Batiatus’ humiliation would be even greater.  It was tempting to assume that my life was guaranteed, that Batiatus would do everything in his power to ensure my success, but the mark of a true gladiator was not his survival alone but his skill.  Skill could not be faked.  Certainly not in the arena where the crowd held sway.

For the test, however?

No.  Even if the opponent chosen to face me followed orders and allowed me victory -- even if he gave Numerius the show he desired -- the resentment alone would lead to very unpleasant consequences for me.

I must fight.  I must extend true effort.  There was no other way.  “Doctore has given me leave to spar with gladiators.  I am to request permission if they offer.”

Agron nodded.  “So we shall.”

“No,” I argued, “your own training takes precedence.  You are both soon for the arena, are you not?”

Duro shrugged.  “I’m to spar with Hamilcar in the use of the ax, but that will not require the remainder of the afternoon.  We can spare the time.”

Agron agreed.  “Duro will assist you with shield and blocking.”

“Ha!” his brother barked.  Grinning and brows waggling, he teased, “My pretty face proves I have some skill with it, does it not?”

I breathed out a laugh.  “That it does.”  However, I was compelled to add, “There is little I can offer in way of payment.”

Fingertips upon my forearm.  I should have stiffened.  I should have stiffened at the touch upon my neck moments ago and upon my shoulder that morning.  Perhaps I was too exhausted to manage the effort required.

Agron proposed in a tone quieter and gentler than I would have thought he could produce, “You are well-read, are you not?”  At my nod, he glanced toward Duro and then asked of me, “Perhaps you might share knowledge gained in Rome?”

“You desire to study literature and politics?”  I could not be understanding this rightly.

Duro snorted.  “A welcome remedy for boredom.  I was starting to fear we might die of it before setting foot in the arena.”

“An ignoble end,” I agreed with a smile.

Duro nudged my elbow.  “Eat.”

I did.  Following that, Agron and Duro accompanied me as I approached Doctore.  The man did not seem surprised by either my initiative or the brothers’ willingness to offer time from their own training.  His mouth curved into a slight smile and with a small nod toward the yard beside him, we took up position.

Agron advanced on Duro for demonstration before I took the younger brother’s place and Duro coached me to keep shield high, angle sword deftly, sidestep, dodge, duck, weave.  The blows that landed upon my shield reverberated through my entire, aching body yet I knew Agron was not using even half his strength.

Fuck.

As I raised shield and sword, I also fended off discouragement.  For the sake of the sacrifice these brothers made on my behalf, I could not allow myself to feel disheartened.  To do so was to insult them.

“Nasir!” Doctore called.  “Continue with defense.  Pair with Duro.  Agron, Lydon.  First position!”

Sparring was exhausting.  It was almost a relief when Duro was sent to pair with Crixus -- the former champion finally taking to the sands after long convalescence -- and I could return to the mindless task of hauling the wooden beam from one end of the yard to the other.  As I performed the menial labor, I watched.  Though I doubted that committing the favored moves of these men to memory would aid me in the arena.

Should I even live to see it.

The former champion fought with rage-fueled brutality, tossing Duro aside as if he were a rag doll.

Agron took exception.  He marched across the sand, approaching Crixus from back with intent blazing in his eyes.  The Gaul turned--

_****Thwack!** ** _

I gaped as Agron’s temper loosened itself not with words but with fists.  The sound of the blows solid and sickening.  Crixus struck back and Agron was knocked down, landing hard with blood upon his snarling lips yet he gained feet with haste.  It was as if neither man could feel pain at all.

The crack of the whip shocked the air from the yard.  The spine of every man snapped to attention.

“Stand down!  Agron!  Duro!  Enough.”

Agron and Duro?  What had Duro done to draw Doctore’s displeasure?  It mattered not.  The man’s word was law here on these sands.

“Test my patience again and I will see you both to the mines.”

I swallowed hard.  My throat constricted and I undertook task once more before Doctore aimed that whip in my direction.  I hauled and heaved, every footstep reminding me of those blows.  Any one of which -- from either Crixus or Agron -- would certainly send me into the sand, senses scattered to the winds.

I could not possibly fight such men.

But I would have to.  Numerius would insist on it.

The test loomed.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I begged my stomach to settle.   _ ** **Slow,****_  I entreated my racing pulse.   _ ** **Calm,****_  I ordered my pounding heart.  If my will was not strong enough to attend to my own body, then I was already broken and defeated.

Suddenly, I recalled the touch of Agron’s rough-skinned fingers upon my arm, my shoulder, my jaw, my neck.  If a gladiator could be gentle, surely a house slave could be deadly?  I needed only to find a way.

Still, Agron’s defense of his younger brother brought to mind an aspect of battle I was woefully under-prepared for.  I fully intended to break words on it.

Spartacus and Varro made time for me separately before evening meal.  Duro received instruction from Hamilcar and Agron faced a Celt called Fulco.

Once our bellies had been filled, I lingered with Agron and Duro as men started to make their way into the ludus for evening ablutions.  The crowd within the hall thinned and I confided, “I do not know how to fight.”

Duro bumped my shoulder playfully.  Tender muscle protested and I bit back a wince.  “You’ll be given sword and shield for the test.  We will see that you know how to use them.”

“No, no.  With fists.  And… and body.  Brawling.  I have never--”

“Fuck the gods,” Agron muttered, lowering his face to his hands and scrubbing vigorously.

Duro stared at me, slack-jawed.  “But… in your early years… did you not fight with other boys?”

My early years.  I sighed.  “I only recall a brother.”  My brother, nameless and faceless.  I would not recognize him if our paths crossed.  I preferred the aches of my body to the pain of that single truth.  I said, “But I hold no memory of discord between us.  I was… very young.”

Agron gathered his empty dish and my own with abrupt motions, noisily stacking them.  “You must learn how to fall.”

“There is skill in such a thing?”

Duro laughed, but he sounded weary.  “Everyone falls.  The victor is the one who regains feet and keeps to purpose.”

We returned to the sands where Duro took great pleasure in shoving Agron back again and again.  He rolled in the dust, coming up on his feet in one continuous motion that seemed so simple.

It was not.  The first shove Duro gave me was not strong enough to send me to the ground.  I shuffled back instinctively, keeping my feet.  The second shove, however, was more than sufficient.

My back struck sand.

Lungs flattened.

Aching pain flared like the blazing sun.

“Fuck,” I wheezed, wincing away from the sound of laughter in the hall.  Of course those that lingered to enjoy the evening were watching and mocking.  May the gods damn them all.

Agron offered his arm.  “Let us start nearer to ground.”

We rolled upon elbows and knees and then moved to knees alone and rehearsed falling back, twisting to left or right and quickly pushing to feet.  We resumed the first position for the lesson and, this time, when Duro delivered a hard shove, I managed to break my fall with forearm and shoulder, allowing the force of the blow to roll me over and onto my knees.  I pushed myself upright, panting.

There was sand in my hair, dust in my mouth, and moisture leaking from my stinging eyes, but I did not call for a break.

I demanded, “Again.”

Duro obliged.  Agron spoke correction.

I straightened.  “Again.”

Another hard shove.  My recovery was slower than before, but I regained feet.

I spat out dirt and rubbed a grimy forearm over my slimy lips.  “Again.”

When my body struck the ground, I could not prevent a sharp groan from escaping and I clawed at the sand as though, with a sure grip, I would be able to steady myself.  It took a moment, but I rose up.

“Ah-again,” I heard myself rasp.

“No,” Agron answered.

“You are done, little man.”

The words seemed an omen.

“Come,” Agron continued, nudging me toward the ludus.  “The bath awaits.”

It was empty by the time we arrived.  I fumbled with the oil, scraping mechanically with the strigil.  When Duro once more attempted to cleanse his own back, I warned him, “Still your squirming,” and took it upon myself to remove the dirt and sweat with practiced hand.

Duro was tense at first, but then smirked at Agron over his shoulder.  “Nasir’s skill surpasses yours in this, brother.”

Agron’s response consisted of easing my damp hair over one shoulder and applying oil to my back with warm sweeps of his callused palm.  The path of the strigil in his hand mimicked mine upon his brother’s back.  I twitched my shoulders at a particularly hard scrape and Agron immediately eased the pressure.  I nodded approval.

Duro’s back was finished before mine, so I gestured for him to go ahead to the bath.  His gaze flicked to his brother and a smirk twisted Duro’s lips.  With a rueful shake of his head, Duro splashed into the water.  Without washing his feet first.  Again.

I closed my eyes, swaying with every lulling pass of the strigil.  As it scraped over my lower back, I reached for the oil.  Glancing over my shoulder at Agron, I took in his eyes -- focused intently on task and pupils dilated wide in the dim light.

“Turn and I shall return favor.”

With a short nod, he complied.  Despite the exhaustion that threatened to make my hands clumsy, I endeavored to be thorough and maintain firm pressure.  Not hard enough to raise red marks, but not so light that it tickled.  Regardless, Agron did not seem to enjoy the attention; his hands remained fisted at his sides and body tense.

“Finished,” I announced many long, silent moments later.

“Gratitude.”  His voice was rough and, when he did not turn around, I left him to complete his cleansing.

Rinsing my feet, I quirked a brow at Duro’s smug grin.  He mused, “Do you favor cunt or cock, Nasir?”

Midway into the water, my supporting arm twitched and gave out.  My ass hit the submerged ledge with a loud splash, jolting every ache back to life, and I bit back a groan.  Pain.  Embrace the pain.

“Duro,” Agron growled.  “Leave him be.”

I narrowed my eyes at Duro, gauging his level of interest.  While I had no cause for concern -- he had given no sign that he would force himself on me -- I doubted it would be wise for him to become further attached.  I was marked for death.

He waggled his brows and I rolled my eyes.  It was impossible to hold to dark thoughts around Duro.

“I would not turn away warm affections,” I retorted lightly, “such that puppies are known for.”

Duro let out noise of shocked affront.

Agron threw back his head and laughed.

“Do you call me a pup, little man?” Duro roared over Agron’s mirth.

“You make assumption,” I retorted, unabashed, “that I speak of _****you.****_   Though, yes, puppies with eyes like yours are not unheard of.”

Agron leaned a hand against the bath wall, gasping for breath.

Duro snorted.  “What color is your preference?”

“Undetermined.”  It was no vague deflection; it was an honest reply.  I spoke of Agron’s eyes and their unnamed, ever-shifting colors… mere moments after denouncing the prospect of attachment.  Fuck the gods.

As I began the obligatory series of stretches, Duro relented from his line of questioning with a shake of his head.

“Do not allow me to wound you, brave warrior,” I soothed, lips twitching with a grin.  “There are others far more worthy of your attentions.”

Eyes wide, Duro sat up, sending water cascading over the edge of the bath.  “What?  No!  I do not ask for my--”

“Close fucking mouth,” Agron interrupted, approaching the bath.  He washed his feet as I had and eased himself into the water, stretching his long legs out.  Arms that seemed nearly as lengthy draped over the stone edge.  Agron closed his eyes.

Duro sent his brother a glare that would have been disgusted if it weren’t brimming with fondness.  “Suck a cock,” he muttered.

“Fuck a cunt.”

Duro leaned back on his elbows with a dry chuckle.  “A man can dream.”

Oh.  So Duro had not necessarily been expressing his own interest.

The memory of warm touch returned on a rush of pebbling skin.  Arm, shoulder, neck.

Well.

I slipped further under the surface of the water and grinned up at the ceiling.

A dream.  What would I dream of if I allowed myself the luxury?

It was a question easily asked, but no so readily answered… despite the vision that came to me in reply.

I pretended ignorance.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctore actually punishes Agron and Duro with half rations for the remainder of the week for the altercation with Crixus, but as there are so many scenes in this story revolving around meal times, I just cut that bit out rather than have to keep track of it. I’m lazy.
> 
> I read that Hamilcar never won a single match in the arena, but I still have him train Duro. I can see Doctore doing this to build Duro’s confidence. If you’re not confident in a fight, you are NOT going to win, regardless.
> 
> Falling/tumbling without hurting yourself is quite the skill. Just ask anyone who does judo, aikido, or the like.
> 
> I have no idea if practice swords actually had a metal core (the ones in the series look like they don’t), but it seems to me that it would be important to get the weight and balance as close to a steel (or iron) weapon as possible. “A Different Arena” by gaygreekgladiator mentions an iron core in practice swords and this totally became my headcanon -- http://archiveofourown.org/works/387411
> 
> Also, who doesn’t love a Nasir who gets his snark on? One snarky Nasir that comes to mind is in the “Differing Words” series by Kira_Dattei @ https://archiveofourown.org/series/195995
> 
> On a final note: poor Agron. I mean, he's totally falling for a dude who just got tossed into the do-or-die deep end. And his developing crush on Nasir is like the worst-kept secret ever. I feel for the guy. I really do.


	4. Prove Just As Fierce

 

Murmurs.

I endeavored to share the Roman tales and philosophy I had learned.  Duro enjoyed arguing any point he could dislodge with German stories or “clear fucking sense.”

Agron kept his gaze on me, whacking his brother when the interruption stretched beyond the margin of Agron’s thin patience.  “You yet make noise with your fucking mouth, brother.”

“This noise is called ‘words.’  You’ve taken too many blows to the head, _****brother.”****_

“You interrupt Nasir.”

“I make excellent point!”

“You spew ungrateful shit.  Close mouth.”

I was grinning by this point.  Despite his threats, Agron was returning it.  I could not find any green in his eyes by torch light.  They were pure, dull gold now.

“If I still live tomorrow, I will tell more,” I promised easily.  Standing from the bench, I sought the floor.

Agron lurched to his feet and held out an arm to bar me from lowering my sore body to the dirt.

“I leave the benches to you and Duro,” I informed him.

“No.  We will alternate.”

Duro snorted, lying down and stretching out like a lazy cat.  “The two of you--”  He waved carelessly in our direction.  “--will alternate.  Or fucking share.  This bench is mine.”

Agron scowled at him.

“Argue on the morrow.  It grows late,” I reminded him, clenching my jaw against a yawn.

“Wise words.”  Where Duro would have pushed or elbowed me, Agron curled a long arm around my shoulders and gestured me toward the bench.

“Agron--” I began.

“Argue on the morrow.  It grows late.”

“So clever,” I mockingly commended.

He grinned.  Duro giggled.  I relented and slept upon the bench.

I woke to fingertips brushing through my loosened hair.  They touched my shoulder and I opened my eyes.  “Agron.”

“It is morning.”

“May we argue now?”

He chuckled and took a seat when I sat up, wincing.  I fumbled to untangle and restrain my hair with the cord I’d looped around my wrist for the night.  Would he lend aid if I asked?  The fact that I would have welcomed it was what stayed my tongue.  The unvoiced words burned upon lips, against throat, within chest.

I should not encourage this.  I was soon for the afterlife.

This day followed the same pattern as the one before.  The only difference being the pain.  In some ways, it was worse -- I was one day closer to death and I still could not name all the colors of Agron’s ever-changing eyes.  Yet in other ways, the pain was easier to bear.  Perhaps my body had grown weary of resisting and had begun to embrace it as Spartacus had advised.

Morning drills.

Sparring.

Dragging that gods damned wooden beam.

Studying the gladiators.

Varro was given leave to spar with me.  He offered patience and welcome words on honing the accuracy of my attack.  “Keep eye upon opponent’s shoulders.  As he moves to strike, he offers opportunity to--yes.  Like so.  Good!”

His easy manner was not as distracting as dimpled scruff, low chuckles, and penetrating gaze.

Spartacus worked with me on a combination of defense and counter strike.  “From prone position, strike with leg -- yes.  Use the surface at your back to aid effort.  Try again.”

He approved my attempts, but there was no joy in him.  The scratch upon his side -- the one he’d received at fateful celebration -- appeared raw.  “I would clean that for you if Medicus is not available,” I offered.

“Gratitude.  I may seek your aid in the baths.”

The evening meal passed my dust-coated lips, tasting both better and worse for it.  All aspects of my life were now both better and worse.  I had never felt so alive.

Duro and Agron advanced my knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting with open-palmed slaps.  “Less likely to break your hand,” Duro explained.

Here, speed was to my advantage as I dodged and lunged, landing more blows than I received.  Until Duro swept my feet out from under me.  I landed hard, twisting onto my side and rolling away.  Lurching to my feet, I found two wide smiles aimed at me.

“Well done!” Duro praised.

Agron nodded once.

We bathed.  Recalling my offer to Spartacus, I cast gaze over the men, but he was not present.  I cleansed Duro’s back as Agron tended mine, then I returned favor.  If my hands were slower and gentler upon Agron’s skin than they were upon his brother’s… well.  Why not?  He did not voice objection and I would likely be dead in four days’ time.  If my opponent was kind enough to give me a clean death.

I slept on the floor.

I woke before Agron’s touch, but remained where I was, eyes closed, awaiting it.  Again, those callused fingers ghosted through my hair before brushing my shoulder.  I rolled onto my back.

“Day breaks,” he said.

“The pain begins to fade,” I answered.

“A thing well received.”  He held out his hand.

I took it.  “This as well.”

Another day -- indistinguishable from the one previous… until Spartacus collapsed upon the sands.  His wound was inflamed and Medicus cursed as Agron and Varro hauled the man into the ludus.

Doctore followed to receive the medicus’ words and make report to Batiatus.  When he later returned to the yard, I was surprised by his deliberate approach as I neared the wall.

He paused beside me and quietly volunteered, “The magistrate’s son favors Spartacus.  Dominus will put off Numerius’ next visit until the Champion of Capua is well enough to receive him.”

My mind raced.  “The test…?” I began.

“Will take place once _****all****_  in the ludus can stand upon their own feet.”

By the gods.  Spartacus may have just given me the gift of time.  Intentionally or not.

“Return to training,” Doctore urged, not unkindly.

I did.  I trained with wooden gladius in right hand and in left.  I trained in using a shield for protection and as an extension of my own fist, to strike and ram.  I trained in falling, rolling fast, gaining feet.  I trained in ducking, dodging, lunging.

As Spartacus fought, so did I.

Day upon day upon day, I fought Varro, Duro, and Agron.

“Use full fucking strength!” I hollered at the man and his fucking dimples.

“Perhaps on the morrow.”

I knocked his sword aside with my shield and darted in shoulder first.  He skipped back, bringing his shield up and I slammed into it rather than his chest.  Fuck.

“Spartacus recovers,” I gritted out.  I’d seen him watching from ludus doorway though he’d appeared weak yet.  “The morrow may very well bring my test.”

I glared into Agron’s eyes.  They seemed pale blue today.  Was it the light or the clear sky behind him that made them appear so?

I persisted, “My opponent will not withhold his blows.”

Agron’s mouth tightened, turning down at the corners.  Perhaps he also tasted something bitter upon his tongue: something resembling truth.  “No, he will not,” Agron agreed.  His shoulders rose and fell with a single deep breath.  He nodded and moved to first position.  I mirrored him.

He struck.

Fuck the gods!  A week ago, such a blow upon lifted shield would have broken my arm.

I fell back.  Rolled.  Thrust forward with sword, catching Agron’s thigh hard enough to force a grunt from him and leave a red mark, the promise of a bruise.

Lunging to my feet, I angled the shield to turn aside Agron’s sword.  His shield swooped in.  I leaped back.  Wooden blade descended.  I dropped, rolled into his feet, and slammed my shield into his lower belly.

He wobbled, adjusted stance.  I scrambled to my feet.

A blow to face--

A flash of dark, then white, then--

My arm ached, muscles and joints vibrating from impact of wood-upon-wood.  I’d blindly blocked the blow, anticipating Agron’s most likely move.

_****Shield!** ** _

Agron’s shield was whooshing toward my ribs and I struggled to turn it aside with mine.  Then, rashly, I threw my shield down and latched onto his sword arm.  Spinning on my heel-and-ball, I levered his arm behind him.

The practice blade knocked against my outer thigh, but I held on, kicked at his knee.

He went down.  Rolled.

I rolled with him, my own grip dragging me to the sand and under him.

_****Fuck the gods and fight!** ** _

I slapped him across the face.  Hard.  Twisted my knees up and wedged them between us.  Pushed at his pelvis with my feet.  Shoved hard, bracing on my shoulders, spine arching.

He fell back.  My hands raced through the loose sand.  Pommel.  Tight grip.  Gain feet.

Yes.  I yet stood.

Agron claimed a shield as he rose, facing me again.  It wasn’t until I saw his wild grin that I realized my own bared teeth showed equal parts thrill and determination.

He shifted to the left.  We circled.  Circled.  Circled closer to the abandoned training blade.

No.  I could not allow him within range of it.  I swung at his face with fist.

He batted my hand away.  I spun into-under-past his guard, knocking his shield arm wide and, turning wooden blade.  My back thudding against his chest, I stabbed under my arm and into his belly.

The breath whooshed out of him, sticking strands of hair to my sweaty neck.

He stumbled back, wincing and squinting through a smile.  “Fuck,” he rasped.

I raised my sword again.

His eyes flashed with--

_****Crack!** ** _

“Agron!  Nasir!”

I lowered my guard as Doctore strode closer and I realized that all activity in the training yard had come to a halt.  Fuck.  How long had they been watching?

“Nasir, what was your intention?”

“Survival,” I panted, “pure and simple, Doctore.”

Snickers and snorts.  One guffaw that I recognized from Duro.

Doctore retorted, “Do not present back to opponent unless you hold his severed head in hand.  A man impaled can yet take you with him to the afterlife.”

“Yes, Doctore.”

“Agron.”

“Yes, Doctore?”

“You underestimate the speed of your opponent.  Defense lacks accuracy.”  The master of the sands turned to speak to all the men.  “One motion.  What begins as block should follow through with attack.  Bindings!”

Everyone groaned.  I soon realized the cause for it.

“Too tight?” Agron asked, giving the knot a tug.  My right arm was folded up along my back, wrist tied and cloth looped over my left shoulder… so as to fight with only one arm.

“Acceptable,” I answered, helping him ease his own tightly tied loop of cloth over his shoulder.  I bent to retrieve my dropped practice blade.

“Nasir.”

“Hm?”  Looking into Agron’s luminous eyes, I was awash in that gaze and its intense, unnamed emotion.

He grinned.  “You did fucking well.”

Pride.  Agron felt pride.  In me.

“I…”  Swallow.  Choke.  Cough.  “I strive to honor my instructor.”

His lips mashed into a twitching frown.  By the gods, he was overwhelmed.  Had I done this?  Truly?

It must be so.

I grinned.  “In such a state, a man who seeks to take advantage would knock you upon ass, Agron.”

“He is welcome to make fucking attempt!”

Sparring one-handed was conducted at much slower pace than usual training in order to prevent hard falls and injury.  Doctore wound and wove his way between pairs, barking corrections, turning a block from reaction to opportunity.

Caught up in Agron’s bright smile, I could almost believe that I was a gladiator.

Almost.

Duro congratulated me at day’s end with a solid round of skin-pinkening back slapping.  “Soon I will ask you to instruct me, little brother!”  Turning to Agron, Duro smirked, “You begin to bruise, brother.  Has flesh grown overly tender of late?”

Agron lunged, but Duro spun neatly out of range of the headlock.

I was jostled between them, laughing and elbowing their bellies.

Life and death and laughter.  I had brothers.  Were I to meet the Ferryman on the morrow, it would be worth it.  For this, for these two crude and generous barbarians, for their jests and gentleness, it would be worth it.

Varro tugged me free of their halfhearted brawl.  “Gratitude,” I gasped out.

He replied with a wink, “You would do the same for me.”

I already had.  I had pulled Varro from the edge of the afterlife expecting no reward save the release of death.  What I had not realized in that moment was that as surely as I’d saved Varro’s life, he had saved mine.  He and Spartacus had presented choice and, in committing hand to purpose, I had become Nasir, a man with brothers: Agron and Duro.

I could not say which was the greater debt.  Perhaps we stood equal: a Roman and a Syrian.  Nowhere else in Rome could this be so.  And if this impossible thing could come to pass in the house of Batiatus, perhaps a house slave could become a gladiator.

Perhaps.

The three of us ate soup of indiscernible ingredients.  We cleansed and bathed.  We returned to the open cage.  Duro sprawled across his bench.  Agron sat next to me on mine.  I resumed the previous night’s lesson, entertaining Duro’s impertinent outbursts and lightly tapping Agron’s elbow to dissuade his grumbling at each interruption.

Duro dozed off as I was recounting Hannibal’s march over the Alps.  At the sound of his soft snore, I left the account incomplete.  Having lost half of my audience, it would be better to resume the lecture on the morrow.

“And the elephants?” Agron prompted in a hushed tone.  “How do they appear?”

“You’ve not seen one yet?”

He shook his head.

“Enormous beasts possessing thick hides and great ears--” I mimed their form in the air: a long nose and arching spine, massive feet and ridiculous donkey’s tail.

Agron smiled through every word of my fanciful rendering.  When I paused for breath, he whispered, “Even such a beast would fall before you.”

I snorted.  “I am merely a house slave caught in an idle wager between Romans.  I am no warrior.”

“And yet your fire proves just as fierce.”

A warm, rough hand smoothed over my neck.  Fingertips drifted and sifted into my hair to tease skin.  I shuddered.  My eyes fell closed.

Breath upon my cheek.  A hot brow pressed to mine.  “You have only to set mind to purpose to see it done.  The gods themselves could not stop you.”

“Do not… Agron, no.  My test--”

“You will pass, Nasir.  You will fucking _****pass****. **”**_

I swallowed.  Opened my eyes.  Agron was, as ever it seemed, attending to me with his gaze.  “And then I will be sent to the arena.”

The arena.

_****The arena.** ** _

I grabbed for Agron’s wrist, holding his palm against my racing pulse.  “The _****arena,****_  Agron.”

Breath shuddered past his parted lips.  “Open hands and release fear.  It cannot hold you.”

“As you hold me?”

His chest flexed and froze mid-breath.  His fingers tensed before rubbing minute circles into my flesh.  “Should you wish it, yes.  I would.”

My mouth felt dry, my throat too tight, my lungs empty of air.

“Then provide demonstration,” I replied, leaning up on my knees and pressing a palm to his bare chest.  He reclined upon the bench.  There was barely enough room for his large frame let alone what I intended, but I would make attempt.

His hands, one yet upon my neck and the other curling around my shoulder, guided me close.  I wiggled against his side, finding a niche under his arm for my shoulder.  My pelvis canted against his hip.  One thigh crossed the top of his, leg bending around his knee.  As his arms tightened around me and tucked me close, I placed my other hand upon his chest.  His scar pressed against my cheek.  The soft stubble upon his chin caught wisps of hair that had escaped their cord.

My entire body was lifted as he drew a deep breath.  Smiling, I inhaled against his skin.

“Agron,” I murmured.

“Nasir?”

“Well received.”

His palms rubbed over my arm and back, easing me into slumber.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know nothing about wrestling. I know it was part of the games in ancient Greece (home of the original Olympic Games) and both Agron and Sedullus (in Spartacus: Vengeance) seem to enjoy it. I mean, any activity that requires you ask someone to hold your beer (or beer-equivalent) for you is a bonding experience, am I right? (Like, if the guy takes good care of your "beer" then he's def a good buddy to have, and the guy you wrestle with, well, after you've incidentally mashed your faces into each other's armpits, that's just the kind of closeness you can't pretend never happened. I dunno. My two cents.)
> 
> Also, I'm trying to write the fight scenes so that the actual action reads very fast -- act-and-react -- without time for thought or strategizing. So it's kind of tough, y'know? I want it to read really fast, but I don't want it to be too confusing. (A little confusion is maybe OK because, let's be real, a fight in real-time probably would be confusing.)
> 
> If you're interested, I had "We Found Love" (cover by Sam Tsui) playing on repeat pretty much the whole time I was writing this. I am such a sucker for ludus love stories. I'm not alone in this, am I?


	5. Ass Over Ears

 

Warmth.

I stretched toward it, over it, molded myself against it, burrowed closer to it.

A sigh.  A breath.  The world beneath my cheek and hand swelled, lifted, and I remembered: Agron.

Tilting my head up, I grinned at the feel of fingers gliding up my back and neck and into loosened hair.

“Dawn comes?” I whispered against the thud of his heartbeat.

“No.  Stay.”

I chuckled, breath puffing upon his skin.  “Ah, truth at last.”

“I do not know your meaning.”

But he did.  I could hear it in his tone, equal parts guilt and elation.  “Oh?  You did not touch hair and skin at _**earliest**_ opportunity?”

“No.”

“No?”

“At _****every****_  opportunity.”

A smile stretched my lips wide.  “Apologies.  My mistake.”

Against my brow, I felt his jaw muscles tense.  “No, no mistake.”

Well.  His conviction would be proven either false or true in time.  There was little to be gained by arguing now.  I sighed: “Your brother will be terribly pleased to discover us.”

Agron laughed in silence, petting my hair so gently.  “And I shall be pleased to knock him ass over ears.”

“Yet no offer to instruct me in the same technique?”

Lips pressed against the top of my brow and tightened into a smile.  “I must take exception were you to damage him.  More than the stupid fuck is already damaged.”

“You make assumption,” I mumbled, “of intended target.”

His chuckle bounced my cheek over his heart.  “By the gods, Nasir.  Are you blind?”

I tilted my head up.  Our grins matched.  I blinked at him once, twice.  “No.  I took notice.”  I had already tumbled Agron ass over ears.  How and when it had happened I was unsure.  I teased, “You fell under the strigil?”

He groaned softly, wordlessly admitting to the torment.  “Fuck the gods.  Such a tiny thing could not fell a man from lands east of the Rhine.”

“It was the cock-sucking, then.”

“Ha!” he wheezed.  “A more formidable threat to be sure.”

A strangled groan from across the cage forestalled my response.  “Ugh,” Duro grumbled, “if you cannot fucking restrain yourselves, make silent endeavor.”

Pressing bent elbows to ears, Duro rolled onto his side to face the wall.

My belly twitched with laughter, jostling Agron in silence.  He grinned at me… and then his expression shifted.  Sobered.  He swallowed.  His brows twitched and his fingers reached up to brush curling strands of hair from my eyes before trailing down to trace my mouth.  He drank in my mirth with reverent gaze and I knew.

It had been neither touch of strigil nor jest of cock-sucking.  It had been my smile.

Just as his had been my downfall.

It was a small thing, but one of such tremendous equality: everyone -- man, woman, child -- was capable of a smile.  And yet Agron would have me match him in more ways: in strength and in skill upon the sands.

Yes.  By the gods, yes.  I would do this.  For him.  For myself.  Batiatus could lick as much Roman ass as he liked.  I could not prevent him from taking credit for the results of my efforts -- my pain and sweat and blood -- but my reasons for fighting would be my own.

For a Syrian called Nasir.  For a German called Agron.  For a friend and brother called Duro.  I would fight for these men.  I would do more than simply die for their sake.  I would live.

Agron’s breath caught and my jaw throbbed.  I was gritting my teeth, lips pulled wide in a soundless snarl.

“Fuck,” he breathed.  “There is a warrior in you.”

“For setting him to purpose, I place blame in your hands.”

His lips parted.  A sudden haze of heat flared in his eyes and I wanted nothing more than to answer it.  From gaze to grasp to groin -- I shivered with lust, hot and swift: a strike from a blade.  Palm sliding down his chest and hips rocking into his flank, I--

I sat up with the motion, panting in silence.  This was too much.  Just… too much.  I gripped the edge of the bench, feet braced against the dirt floor.  It wasn’t until he moved to sit beside me that I realized Agron had not attempted to hold me fast.  Gods save me.  In letting me slip from his grasp, he merely doubled my desire for him.

“Fucking German,” I hissed.  Breathed.  The world spun.  He shifted but did not press advantage. Of course not.  Agron was not such a man.  Upon the sands, he fought with brutal purpose, but among those he held dear to heart, he possessed uncommon gentleness.

My lips curled into a bemused grin.

“Ass over ears?” he playfully queried with a light touch to my shoulder.

I nodded.  A long, warm arm wrapped around my shoulders.  Lips pressed against my disheveled hair.  A warm thigh brushed against my hand and I abandoned my grip upon the bench to clutch his wrists.  In a mere moment, Agron had shed the mantle of hopeful lover and become a brother, soothing ragged nerves and slowing racing heart.

Peace descended in waves; every breath eased the burning in my skin and pushed Agron’s side against mine.  A steadying warmth.  After a time, I was able to think, to move, to focus on the tasks ahead.

Sliding out from under the weight of his arm, I stood and leaned my forehead against his, a hand upon the back of his neck to steady myself.  “Gratitude,” I breathed.

He shook his head without breaking our strange embrace.

With a helpless smile, I moved away to begin my morning stretches.

“You two fuck yet?” Duro asked with a wincing, sidelong glance.

Before Agron lunged for him, I inquired, “Have you placed a wager on it?”

“Eh.  No coin,” he admitted.

“Then perhaps we will wait until you do.”

Duro guffawed, throwing his arms wide in joy.  “Nasir, my brother!”

I grinned.  “Brother Duro.”

He winked at Agron who, from his flexing hands, appeared to be seriously considering throttling his younger brother.  Duro rolled his eyes.  “Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

“You--”

“--will knock you senseless should you fuck this over and cause Nasir to drop you on your dim-witted ass.”

Agron glared hard, but his mouth twitched with humor.  “Should that happen, Nasir would have you wait ‘til he was finished with me before allowing you vengeance.  Brother.”

I lifted my brows at that and waited for Duro to laugh.  I waited for him to smirk and shake his head at the thought of me posing any kind of physical threat to Agron.

Duro leaned back on his bench, still grinning.  “Indeed.”  Aiming a wink at me, he said, “Just leave me something to beat sense into.”

My smile was so wide my cheeks hurt.  “So be it.”

Spartacus was already eating beside Varro when we exited the ludus corridors and stepped into the hall.  The champion offered me a wan grin of greeting.  “Varro tells of your increasing skill in battle.”

“Do you request demonstration?”

Varro chuckled and teased Spartacus, “This is the result of making acquaintance with the Ferryman, however brief.  Even the recruit thinks he can best you.”

Duro sputtered and snorted.  “Nasir would not be the first.”

Spartacus looked up.

Duro shrugged shamelessly.

Agron rolled his eyes and sighed.  I almost pitied him; ensuring Duro’s head remained upon neck was no small task.

“Fill your belly, Nasir,” Spartacus invited.  “I would see for myself what you have learned.”

It would have been another unremarkable day except for Doctore’s brief absence following midday meal.  I glanced up toward Batiatus’ office more than once, wondering how many days I could yet claim for training.

When my attention wandered from my portion of stew for the third or fourth… perhaps sixth time, Agron tapped my wrist.  “Eat.  The day is only half gone.”

Only.  According to Agron’s words, time was plentiful.

I ate.

Duro opened his mouth, glanced at Agron, and closed it again no less than five times during the meal.  I waited until Duro turned from afternoon training for a drink of water to approach.

“Break words.”

“Hm?  Oh, it…”  He glanced guiltily toward his brother.  “Agron would, um--I should not tread upon ground absent invitation.”

I released a puff of laughter.  “And you never fail to respect your brother’s wishes.”

His look of concern startled me.  “I have been wrong not to.”

“Then speak not of his thoughts but your own and allow me to ease a brother’s worries.”

Duro passed me the ladle and squeezed my shoulder.  “Your test.”

“A concern I share.”

He sighed.  “Do not.  He believes you will pass.  Fuck, I believe you will pass.  Your doubt serves no purpose except to cause injury.  To both of you.”

I took a moment to drink.  I intended to use the time to collect my thoughts, but they remained scattered.  Helpless to resist, I looked toward Agron.  He sparred with Fulco again.  He fought as though these sands were ringed by the roaring crowd of the arena: so much strength of purpose and determination.

I asked Duro, “How did you find our match the day before?  Did he hold back?”

Duro laughed.  “Have you met the man?”

With a gusting chuckle, I agreed: Agron did not know how to pace himself in a fight.  “I held my own?  Truly?”

Duro clapped my arm.  “It was no coincidence that I woke to the sight of you in his arms only after you gained the strength to meet his challenge on the sands.”

A smile pushed at my lips but I resisted.  “I cannot allow myself too much hope.”

“No,” he argued, leaning down to meet my gaze as Agron was prone to do, giving my shoulders a firm shake with both hands.  “You must hope.  If a man takes up sword absent hope, then he is already defeated.”  Duro frowned, fierce and intent.  He had never resembled his brother so closely.  “Fight for him.”

Drawing a sharp breath, I recalled words overheard many days before.  My smile wobbled as I repeated them: “I shall fight ‘til my final breath.”

“Good man.”

Duro headed back out into the yard.  I allowed the ladle to slide from my fingers.  As it fell against the side of the water jug, I considered my hands.  Raw skin had hardened.  Blisters had turned into calluses.  These were a fighter’s hands.  Duro was correct and Agron had spoken truth: I had only to set them to purpose.

“Nasir!” Doctore called and I jumped.  “Donar!  Approach and take position!”

Over the past week, I had been given many opportunities to break words with Donar; though Agron and Duro had yet to fight in the arena, the older gladiator seemed to enjoy their company.  He hailed from different lands east of the Rhine, yet he, Agron, and Duro all shared a sharp sense of dry humor and love of bawdy crassness.  I made no effort to actively provoke the man, but would not water down my words in response to insult.  Oddly, Donar seemed to hold me in some regard for it.

For all that he yet considered me a boy among grown men.

I doubted that would translate into any leniency under Doctore’s watchful eye.

I faced Donar, lifted shield and sword, and waited for the order.

Donar was likewise prepared for the match, but his movements held a certain laziness.  It was an error that I would correct presently.

“Attack!”

Donar led with a familiar series of blows, easily anticipated.  I deflected and dodged, settled into the mindset of the fight, seeking opportunity to return blows.  The man barely used his shield for defense, meeting my strikes with sword and swinging shield like a massive fist.

He pressed me back.  I spun and ducked, nearly landing a blow on his flank.  This earned me a narrow-eyed look as he re-evaluated the challenge I presented.  His next blows fell with more force and I watched his shoulders, angling shield and sword to turn each strike aside.

Crashes and clashes rang between our weapons.  He lunged and I spun, bringing a backhanded blow down upon his shoulder, striking with shield and following with sword, slashing a mock wound across Donar’s back.

_****Do not stop.** ** _

A blow to back of his knee.

Donar cursed and rolled, laboriously gaining his feet at a distance with a rueful shake of his head.  Someone cheered.  Varro?

I held no preference for lunging before my opponent committed to his next move, but Donar was likely aware of this.  In an effort to take him by surprise, I struck out with a glancing blow to knock his sword aside.  The edge of my shield came down upon his, lowering his guard.  I stabbed for his neck, caught only air, stumbled forward off balance.

Fuck.

Shield to chest--

The breath whooshed out of my lungs, but I kept my feet.  He paced to the right.  I remained just beyond reach.

Or so I thought.

He lashed out with a powerful kick to my belly.  I fell.

Rolled.

Crouched-and-launched!

Donar’s back struck the sand.  My shield was pinned beneath his sword arm and my weapon knocked aside.  I grabbed for his shield and struck with forehead to nose.

“Fuck!” he cursed.

I followed with a hard slap across his scrunched face.

My shield arm was suddenly free.  I grabbed for the sword descending toward my neck.

Though I prevented the killing blow, my flank was open to Donar’s shield.  The force of the strike sent me tumbling.

Sand and dust and I could not see--

But I could __hear--__

I kicked at his ankles.  Flipped onto my belly.  Rolled toward dropped sword and regained weapon.

Teeth bared, I faced him again.  I would finish this.  I would.  But eagerness would see me fall.

“You are a fast little shit,” Donar approved with a wry grin.

I closed my ears to the remark; he merely sought to make me overconfident.  He advanced and I returned to deflection and dodge.  He frowned, confused at my apparent retreat.

Donar’s next blow was turned away by my shield.  I lunged, cutting through the air from overhead, overextending as I had earlier.

This time, I allowed the blow from shield, slashing at Donar’s belly with sword and striking his shield arm at elbow inside his guard.

Victory was mine.

It was not graceful, but had the gladius in my hand been forged from steel, it would have torn flesh.  With enough force, it might have spilled guts and severed arm.

Doctore confirmed this with his comments:

“Nasir, you would be better served to stab quickly.  You do not yet possess the strength to cleave flesh with force.”

“Gratitude, Doctore.”

“Donar.”

“Doctore?”

“A fight is not restricted to upright position.  Convince knees to bend or opponent will see them to sand when he fucks you in ass.”

“Yes, Doctore.”

The master of the sands looked up to the balcony and, with a jolt, I realized that Batiatus had seen the fight.  The man sucked on his cheek in thought as he considered me, drumming his fingers on the railing.  Then, suddenly, he nodded decisively.

He spoke no words before spinning and, with a flap of robes, returned to the villa.

I did not know the meaning of his actions.

Looking to Doctore, I sought some indication of our dominus’ thoughts.  He said, “The days remaining until your test are now far fewer than the ones you have spent in training.”

As today marked my eleventh day in the ludus and Batiatus had expressed desire that my training not be extended overmuch, I took this to mean that I would have perhaps one or two additional days to prepare.  The test could take place as early as that evening or the day following.

I said, “Yes, Doctore.”

I was assigned to work with a gladiator called the Veteran for the remainder of the afternoon.  He was a man of few words, many scars, and long years, but his grunts were instructional in further honing my ability to open up an opponent’s guard and deliver accurate strike.  He did not seem particularly pleased with my efforts and the part of me that gauged success by my master’s level of satisfaction was unsettled, but neither did the man scream at me nor strike me down.

“He approves,” Varro volunteered when I offered a vague shrug in reply to his query: _**“Our Veteran left you with strength remaining?”**_

“Would he give voice to disapproval?”

Ahead of me, Donar laughed.  He looked over his shoulder as we stood in line for evening meal to say, “He would give blows and you would be on your back more than on your feet, little man.”

The moniker rankled.  My jaw clenched and Donar’s brows lifted in expectation of my snarl.  Well.  I had no desire to disappoint.  “Revise your estimation of my stature lest others take note that a ‘little man’ presented genuine challenge today.”

Duro giggled.

Agron slid an arm over my shoulders.  I did not have to look to know he was wiggling his brows at Donar.

“Genuine challenge?” Donar teased back.  “How do you reach that conclusion?”

“Apologies.  I assumed you suffered no ailment.  Take rest, friend, so that you may bring full strength and skill to bear on our next match.”

The older German barked out a laugh in disbelief.  “Our next--!”

Agron held up a hand.  “Cease words, Donar.  Even the best gladiator cannot win against Nasir in a battle of wits.”

Duro patted his kinsman on the back, commiserating.  “Set intent to gaining our brother’s favor.  It is far more enjoyable to witness the sharpness of Nasir’s tongue turned upon another.”

“Words to take under advisement,” Donar gruffly answered.

“Gratitude for the match today, Donar.”  I offered my arm.

He accepted.  “May the one that follows present greater challenge… to us both.”

Donar turned to receive a bowl from the cook, who I had learned was called Euclid.  I had not asked about the loss of his left arm, but he had told me his homeland was Greece.

To Donar, Euclid said, “Saw your match with the little man.  In another month, he’ll fuck you in ass, you backward German.”

Duro laughed.  “Such motivation!  But to which end?”  He grinned widely.

Donar smacked him upon back of head.  “I bend over for no one, you wretched pup.  Unlike your brother.”

Agron merely shrugged at the accusation.  “Nasir can fuck me all he likes.”

I barked out a laugh.  “You will say that on the morrow when I tumble you to ground and dust fills mouth?”

His eyes glowed with anticipation at my challenge.  “It will stand no less true.”

Duro muttered, “Should Nasir even let you stand…”

Donar made a disgusted noise and stomped off.  I barely noticed his departure.  Agron was bussing my arms, chafing skin with roughened hands still heated from his last fight, whispering in my ear: “I would make no complaint.”

I leaned back, startled hot and heart pounding.  “And yet, when it is I that knocks you ass over ears, does it not stand my charge to aid you in regaining feet?”

Eyes upon me and a wide smile stretching his lips, he beamed with pride and joy and perhaps something… more.

I beamed back.

When the crowd ahead of us cleared, I scooped up two bowls with a nod of thanks to Euclid, passing one to Agron.  He took it as if I’d presented him with emeralds.  As if any indication that I favored him was precious.

Ass over ears, he had said just that morning.  Moment by moment, I only believed him more.

Later that night, as Duro snored and Agron offered a warm barrier between my back and the stone wall, his arm holding me away from the edge, I told him, “When I was first brought to this cage, I expected death.”

Turning my chin so that I could see his expression, I confessed, “Yet I’ve found life.”  There was but one conclusion to be reached: “The gods favored me when they led me here.”

Agron pressed his forehead to the side of mine.  His mouth twitched, stretching into a smile and then drawing into a frown, moving from one to the other like ocean tide.

His arm flexed but did not tighten.  When he spoke, his breath-stubble-lips brushed the shell of my ear, “And I was brought to this house because my arms were meant for you.”

“Only your arms?”

Until his quiet groan slid into ear, I had not realized I’d breathed the words.  He caught the lobe between his lips in a lusty nip.  His cock, already full from our closeness, pressed against my ass through the layers of our thin subligaria.  “No,” he told me.  “Not only my arms.”

I scrambled for distraction lest I be smothered in his heat: “Yet I am not the only cause that sets them to purpose.”

“Hm?”

“You are a warrior.”  I shifted again, secure in the knowledge that Agron would not let me fall.  Reaching up to trace the line of brow into strangely matted locks of hair, I reminded him, “I would have your arms remember that in the arena.”

“Doctore has not told that I will fight.”

“It is inevitable.”

“As will be my return,” he vowed and I permitted the words.  I welcomed the weight of their bind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of this chapter, Nasir finds a purpose (a reason to fight) much the way a very young Oenomaus did under the encouragement of Quintus’ father (in Spartacus: Vengeance flashbacks). And I kind of wonder if part of Doctore’s problem with Spartacus being the reigning champion (in the series) is because Spartacus doesn’t appear to have a higher purpose in mind when he fights.
> 
> Also, I like the contrast between Quintus’ polyester-suit-brown-nosing-salseman way of motivating his “titans” (before Glaber arrives, I mean) and the autonomy-in-choosing-one’s-reason-for-fighting that we get a glimpse of from Quintus' father in the Spartacus: Vengeance flashbacks. Just some thinky thoughts.
> 
> And up next, we find out what happens during Nasir's test! (Tell me you're as excited about this as I am. YOU KNOW YOU WANT TO.) (^_~) *wink*


	6. The Test

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS
> 
> As the chapter title says, this focuses on the test to join the Brotherhood of Batiatus' "titans." If you've seen the series, then you know what to expect if someone passes (branding) or fails (gore and lots of it).
> 
> Also, we'll get a glimpse into the duties that Marius used to demand of his body slave Tiberius. These issues are canon-compliant, but that doesn't make them any more pleasant to contemplate. They are NOT mentioned in explicit detail (and likely never will be).

Dread.

This was what differentiated me from Agron.  His confident smile spoke of anticipation yet the weight in my belly and the chill in my blood spoke of terror.

I stared out into the yard at the platform that had been erected by house slaves as we had taken evening meal.  Agron had reminded me to eat no less than ten times.  I had managed the same number of bites before shoving my mostly-full bowl at Duro.  As usual, he’d gulped his down fast enough to be declared Champion of Capua should the event ever be made a spectacle of the arena.

Now I sat at one of the long tables, surrounded by those bearing the mark of the Brotherhood as they chatted, jested, gambled, and rough-housed.

Each breath I drew was slow and deliberate.  The night air was cool, but I would not allow myself to shiver.  The combined warmth of Agron and Duro so near lent welcome aid, but soon I would stand alone.

I had been given thirteen days to train, nearly twice as long as Agron and Duro and likely many of the men gathered here.

A mere two weeks ago, I had been a house slave.  I had risen with dawn, roused the slaves within the walls of my dominus’ villa, overseen his meals and baths and correspondence.  I had composed letters and dutifully accounted for income and expenditures in his ledgers.  I had dressed him.  I had attended him… in every manner he required.  Until fourteen days ago, I’d held position and respect.

Now I was a single test in armed combat away from regaining some semblance of those two precious commodities here.  Before the night ended, I would count these men -- Celts, Gauls, Greeks, Nubians, Numidians, Germans, Sardinians… and even a Thracian and a free-born Roman citizen -- as brothers.

Or I would not.

The sound of the ludus gate squealing open made my heart pound.  I would be pacing had Agron’s hand not rested upon my shoulder.  A ludus guard emerged and nodded once to Doctore.

“Gladiators and recruit!  Assemble!”

I sucked in a deep breath.  Agron’s palm moved to my neck, then cupped my cheek.  “Your fate rests in your own hands, Nasir, and they are fucking capable.”

Duro bumped his fist against my arm.  “So get up there and show these shits the measure of your cock!”

My laugh was reedy and frantic.  Thank the gods it was not overly loud.

Agron stepped in front of me and pressed a kiss to the center of my forehead.  “Fight,” he commanded, “and return to my arms.”

Gladly.  By the gods, I would gladly return to the arms, lanky and strong, that held me against his warmth every night.  Arms that were often coated in sweat and dust.  Arms that required a ridiculous number of passes with a strigil to clean of grime.  Arms that looped over my shoulders, bringing us together.  These arms, which never made me feel small -- rather, they urged me to stand at Agron’s side, his equal.  Yes, these arms I would gladly return to.

The skin upon my forehead tingled where Agron had kissed it.

I had not yet given Agron a kiss from my lips.  How could I?  It required no effort on my part to imagine the bliss of it.  To partake of that was to have one more treasure at risk of loss.

I recalled nothing of the short walk from dining hall table to open yard.  Torches flickered.  If there were stars overhead, I could not see them.  I stood between Agron and Duro again.  My brothers.

Motion above drew my gaze.  Batiatus, his wife, their guests, and attendants -- one by one, they all gathered at balcony’s edge.  Numerius stood with a stoic Spartacus.  How the man could stomach the close proximity of a child who had initially called for Varro’s death I did not know.  I would have to seek that answer for myself were I indeed sponsored or owned by the magistrate’s son.

“Doctore!” Batiatus bellowed.

The whip cracked.  “Nasir!”

I stepped forward.

“Attend your master!”

I lifted my face to receive the torch light.

“He looks positively savage!” the boy remarked, shocked but pleased.

Spartacus offered comment in a tone too low for me to hear.

Numerius grinned.  “Yes, such a change!”  Turning to Batiatus, he beseeched, “May we have the demonstration now?”

“Of course!” Batiatus agreed with a magnanimous wave of his arm.  “Doctore!”

_****Crack!** ** _

“Nasir!  Rhaskos!  Take position!”

Rhaskos.  Fuck.  He was huge.  Experienced.  Confident.

Too confident, perhaps.

For a brief moment, I considered a prayer, but I did not send it to the gods.  This was my fight.  I would win or lose by my own hand.  The gods were not invited.

Wearing a wide, cocky grin, the Gaul approached the platform.  I claimed the opposite end and climbed up.  Gladius and shield awaited me.  Though they were made of steel rather than wood, their weight and balance was not completely unfamiliar.

The platform was.  For the first time, my feet did not sink into sand and dust but pressed against the slight warp of old boards.  The platform itself was two paces wide by five paces long, raised to shoulder height.  To fall would mean failure.  To be struck with steel and suffer serious injury would mean death.

Is any man ever ready for such a task?

No.  Perhaps not, but it was time.

_****Choose.  Choose now.** ** _

I stiffened as an epiphany pierced my being: I could choose to be ready.  I could choose to face this task.  I could choose to live by sword and shield, blood and sweat.

I did.

I chose to return to Agron’s gentle arms and Duro’s cheeky smiles.  I would not allow fear to guide my hands.  I must unclench my fists and release its hold on me.  Agron’s intimate embrace was the only one I would allow… and I would return to it presently.

Rhaskos took position with a hungry grin.

I took mine with bared teeth.

“Begin!”

This was not the sands, that was immediately clear.  As the Gaul charged forward, so did I.  I could not afford to be caught with nothing but open air at my back.

The first blow came from above -- his favored opening strike.  I turned it aside with blade and swung hard with my shield toward his face.  He could not duck completely, and received a glancing blow.  

I kicked before he could follow through with sword, pressed advantage, stabbing toward torso, angling the blade to enter his side.

He twisted away, brought shield down upon my back.

The blow knocked the wind from me.  I staggered and suddenly my form shifted absent conscious command, and I was sweeping his feet out from under him, shoving with shield, snarling.

He fell.

And landed with a thud upon the sand.

I stared down at the man, numb.

“Nasir is the victor!”

Fuck the gods.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw arms raised in celebration.  Perhaps there were shouts -- roars from Agron and Duro -- but I could not hear them over the ringing in my ears, the whoosh of blood and disbelief.

I had bested Rhaskos.

The simple fuck had underestimated me, true, but I had not shrunk from him in fear.  I had made my choice and I had fucking claimed it.

_****Crack!** ** _

I startled.

“Nasir,” Doctore called.  “Attend your master.”

Lowering sword, I looked up to the balcony.  Batiatus was grinning and gesticulating much to the magistrate’s bemusement.  Numerius watched me with excitement.

It was an expression not dissimilar to the one he’d worn just before ordering Varro’s death.

My teeth ground together until my jaw throbbed.

“Good Batiatus,” the magistrate was saying, “you’ve indeed worked wonders.  A mere house slave stands against one of your titans after only a fortnight.  Truly remarkable, isn’t it, Numerius?”

From his tone, the father was content to let the matter rest.  I kept my gaze upon the spoiled, over-indulged son.  If he agreed that the result of their friendly wager was satisfactorily proven, what would become of me?

Would I be accepted into the Brotherhood?  Would I remain with Agron and Duro?  And among my friends, Varro and Donar and Spartacus?

Would I be assigned the tasks of a ludus slave?  Ah, no.  No, no, _****no!****_   How could I endure a single day without the weight of a sword in my grasp?  After taking up purpose and learning how to fight and to hope and to fucking _****live,****_  how could I go back to mundane drudgery?

Or would I be sent to the mines, of no further use to the house of Batiatus?

I would not return to Marius’ villa.  I would not.  I would die first and await Agron and Duro to join me in the afterlife.

“Yes, father.  Our friend Batiatus has made good on his word.  You do work miracles here, sir!”

Batiatus preened.

“And yet…”

No.  Oh, no.

“I would have sport.  May Nasir fight another?”

It took every bit of self control that I possessed to gaze upon that child absent shock and fury.  I had passed the test.  I had fucking passed!

“I don’t see why not,” the ass-sucking Roman replied carelessly.  “Of course, a recruit is normally set to fight one gladiator.  That is the extent of it.  But it is a waste of opportunity to stop at one, is it not?  Doctore!”

“Dominus.”

“Select another opponent for our Syrian.”

 _ **Our Syrian.**_  Could that mean that Batiatus intended to keep me?  If he was undecided yet, I would aid him in making up fucking mind.

“Fulco!  Take position.”

Fulco.  A Celt.  I had never broken words with him, either.  He was not as big as Rhaskos, but he had additional advantage: not only did he possess the years of training and experience that the Gaul enjoyed, but he had just seen me fight and he would be forewarned of my tactics.  I could only be grateful that the fight with Rhaskos had been brief.

The Celt clamored up onto the platform.  He faced me with a smirk.

I lowered my chin, raised shield and sword, and waited.

“Begin!”

Fulco lunged, stabbed, swung shield, leaped back.  It was a pattern I had memorized.  He opened his guard, but I did not dive forward to seize advantage.  This was his way: a frantic opening foray followed by a brief opportunity, a gamble that his opponent would recklessly press attack absent secure footing and solid balance.

I waited him out.

He lunged again.  Again, I countered, deflected, returned blow.

I gave ground, poised with one pace-width of platform behind me.

He lunged a third time.

I dropped down, rolling onto my back and shoulders, kicking out with both feet and striking Fulco unevenly in shield and hip.

He lurched backward but I was already moving, shield abandoned.  I rolled into his feet.

He wobbled, sword descending toward my neck.

I grabbed for his wrist as my sword rose up between his legs, seeking the crease of thigh and groin--

_****Crack!** ** _

“Draw.  Exchange of fatal blows.”

Fulco lifted his sword away.  I lowered mine.

With a nod, he stepped back.  I pushed to my feet.  My back and shoulders burned.  I would be bruised on the morrow.

I turned and faced the balcony.

Numerius was grinning, jaw agape.

Spartacus was frowning thoughtfully.

Batiatus was fairly bursting with enthusiasm.

But nothing shown in their faces answered my only query: was I done?

“One more!” Numerius bleated.  “Please, Batiatus!  One more!”

One more.  Certainly.  If the fucking Roman pup volunteered himself for demonstration, I would happily fight one more.

Batiatus made noises of protest, but from the first word out of the Roman’s mouth, I knew he would fold.  When he did, I found myself opposite Lydon of Hispania.

Fuck.  This man had no preferred plan of attack, nor was he rash.  He fought at conservative pace and yet attacked with ruthless precision.

If I could not win, then tumbling from the platform would be my only other hope.

Once more, I hefted sword and shield, poised for attack.

Lydon neither smiled nor smirked.  He met my gaze calmly.  My heart thudded in my chest.  I forgot my previous two matches -- a victory and an undefeat -- and set mind to purpose.

“Begin!”

Lydon took a single stride forward.  I met his advance with quick steps, raised shield--

The blow trembled up my arm, jarring my shoulder in its socket.  I stabbed for his knee--

The blade was turned away.  A flurry of strikes upon shield--

_****Do not tuck up!  Maintain stance!** ** _

I shoved toward the next blow.  Lydon took advantage, bashing my abused shoulder with shield.

I snarled.

A blow from above, blade gleaming--

I leaped back.  Followed with sword to trap Lydon’s gladius, struck forward with shield--

Steel against steel cracked and clanged.  A kick to my knee.  My knee to platform--

I rose, spinning clumsily away from arching strike.  Lunged for the opening revealed: elbow to opponent’s belly--

Shield to shoulder yet again!  Fuck!

A foot behind mine, a quick jerk, and I was falling.

Hand stretched out to stop my fall, sword raised in defense of coming strike--

Air beneath my palm.  The rough scrape of platform’s edge against my hip.

Nothingness and rushing wind and impact.

Sand-and-pain.

_****Stand!  Fucking stand, Nasir!** ** _

My mouth was open but I caught no breath.  Lungs burning, shoulder throbbing, heart pounding.

I rolled through the agony to my feet.

_****Carry shield!** ** _

My breath wheezed.  Body trembled.  This ridiculously weak body.  I would fight more.  I would!

I glared up at Lydon, reaffirmed my grip upon shield--

_****Crack!** ** _

“Lydon is the victor.”

Fuck.  I would fight him again!   _ ** **Doctore, I would fight him again!****_

Had I but air and spit to form the words.

Applause.

I startled, looked up.  Numerius was clapping.  Batiatus was grinning as though gazing upon the riches of Rome at his feet.

And I yet lived.

Thrice-tested, I yet drew breath.

The boy quickly robbed me of it: “Could I see this man in the arena, Batiatus?”

Shock flushed the blood from my veins.  The arena.  No longer idle speculation; its threat was made very real.  Were I genuinely, truly, inevitably bound for the arena, then my time here would be lengthened, though not by much.

Well.  I had always expected death.  I would endeavor to make the most of what time yet remained to me.

_****“Open hands.  Release fear.”** ** _

“The arena!” Batiatus cried.  “I also desire to see this little man set to purpose there!  However, the arena is a much larger stage than the one used tonight.  If you hope to witness his valiant efforts upon the sands, he will require additional training.”

“See it done!  I would have my gladiator credit us both.”

“Very well!  Doctore!”

“Dominus.”

“Prepare the mark of the Brotherhood.  Nasir has earned a place among my titans.”

A ear-ringing roar went up -- not only from Agron and Duro, but from all -- and I jerked.  Casting my gaze about, I noted that their enthusiasm seemed genuine.  Doctore approached and, with a satisfied nod, collected my shield.  Lydon leaped down from the platform and offered his arm to me.

I clasped it.

“Welcome, brother.”

Fulco stepped forward.  “Welcome, brother.”

Rhaskos grinned widely; there was no threat in his manner, only a little bemusement and a trace of mockery.  “Welcome, brother.”

One by one, they extended hand or clapped my shoulder -- the sore one, of course, the sly fucks -- until Donar and Varro took turns shaking me silly before spinning me around.  My face smashed against Duro’s chest.  He laughed as he mauled me.

“Fucking German bear!” I choked out, which only made him laugh harder.

And then someone even larger than Duro was elbowing him aside to make room for gentle hands upon my neck and a warm brow tilted against mine.  I said, “Agron.”

He sucked in a great breath through his helpless smile but did not speak.

I grabbed for his scruffed cheeks.  “Breathe lest you burst!”

He laughed hard, eyes sparkling with happiness and pride and, yes, something _**more.**_

I clutched him hard.  Grinned.

I was not grinning as I recited the vow of the Brotherhood, watching as the glowing brand was drawn from the coals.  Among only my brothers, I might have given myself leave to cry out, but with Spartacus attending to Numerius and the boy’s bright eyes fixed upon me, I resolved to keep my silence.  I would not show my pain to this child of sick passions.

The brand met flesh -- its hissing kiss, a flash of white-hot, blinding shock that sizzled into agony.  In desperation, I cast my mind from the moment, away--somewhere--nowhere--anywhere: rug burns upon my young elbows, searing heat under the Syrian sun, sand between my toes, a scream, smoke, smoldering tents and charred bodies, my brother’s frantic cry-- _ ** **“** **NASIR!”****_

A touch on my shoulder, a tap of fingers.  I sucked in a breath.  My head spun.

“Stand,” Batiatus ordered with fanfare.  “Stand and join your brothers!”

The words drifted and shifted, swam past my ears on rolling waves.  My arm throbbed with every heartbeat.  I stood as deliberately as I could, taking slow breaths.  Black spots danced around the edge of my vision.  I smiled.  “Dominus.”

It seemed between one blink of the eye and the next that the Romans and guards withdrew.  A large hand clamped around my shoulder.  I followed it up to the sparkle and shimmer in Duro’s eyes.  “Not so bad, eh?” he teased.

His head jerked forward suddenly as Agron delivered a slap to the back of it.  “Says the fuck who pissed about his brand for two weeks!”

“Did I cry out?” I rasped.  I honestly could not recall.  My heart was racing.  My stomach churned.

“You did not.”  Agron’s voice.  He sounded very proud.  I would have turned my head to see his expression, but I feared for my balance.  My knees were not as steady as they ought to be.

Donar rumbled, “Do you not feel pain, little man?”

“Only as little as you,” I retorted weakly and, for some reason, that caused ripples of laughter.

Varro ducked into my line of sight and pressed a cup of water into my hand.  I was tempted to pour the contents upon my raw-and-blistered forearm, but drank instead.

I wondered if Duro would like me to describe elephants to him.

I missed Agron’s arms.

I wanted everyone gone.

“The arena,” I mused, confused as to why my words did not match the ones I’d desired to speak.

“You will see its sands after all,” Varro congratulated.

Agron crouched down and suddenly his face was right in front of me.  The hand curled around the side of my neck must be his.  Well.  That was acceptable.  The worry pulling his face into a frown was not.

“Nasir?”

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

I shuddered.  My stomach rolled.  “A simple test of combat,” I rasped.  “If I can claim brotherhood for surviving it once, what am I awarded for surviving three times?”

Duro laughed.

“Well-deserved rest,” Agron answered, looking past the numb mask of my face and finding my shallow-breathed panic.  “Come.”

Yes.  I could do that.  I was doing that.  My surroundings were shifting -- proof enough that I was capable of movement.

My arm hurt.  Excruciatingly.  I did not care for the sensation, but there was no point in mentioning it.  Marius would not allow me to seek treatment until my duties were done.

My duties… torch light… corridors… these corridors leading me to my dominus’ bedchamber--

“No!” I wheezed, digging my heels in and resisting the tug upon my arm.  The fingers clenched.  I clawed at the hand, hissing through my teeth, vision narrowed to a fate I would die to avoid.

“Ow!” Duro yelped.

“Release him!” Agron growled, shoving his brother back.  Turning to me, he said calmly, “It’s all right.  Breathe.  No one will harm you.”

“Tell Marius to fuck himself.  I won’t do it any longer.  I refuse.”

Agron’s jaw clenched.  “He will not touch you again.”

“Fuck the gods,” Duro mumbled.

I stared into Agron’s eyes.  Slowly, he extended a hand to me.  I glanced down.  Blinked at it.

“Take my hand, Nasir.”

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

“Is my brother dead?” I asked of him, of myself, of the gods.  “I do not know his fate.  Nor remember his face… his name…”

“Fuck,” Duro spat.  He lurched against my back and spun around in the gloomy corridor to shout at someone hovering in his wake: “A moment, you fucking cunt!  Go play with your cock in the yard!”

Agron sank to his knees and looked up into my eyes, both hands empty and offered.  “You have gained new brothers: Agron and Duro.  Come with us now.”

Nodding, I took his hands.  “Do you smell smoke?”

Whatever his response was, it was lost to me.  I was lost.  Darkness.

And then sunlight and heat.  The arena, the roar of the crowd.  Hoof beats in the sand, pounding, hissing.  Flames engulfing tents and carpets.  Searing pain and dust and smoke.  Half-burned bodies.  My brother -- where was my brother?

_****“NASIR!”** ** _

“Nasir!  It’s alright.  It’s Agron.  It’s--”

I tumbled to the rough floor, scraping my palm in the dirt and bouncing hard upon my hip as long arms slowly withdrew.  “Ag--Agron?”

“I’m here.”  He shifted, brushing against my elbow as he crouched beside me.  The edge of the cold bench pressed against my spine.  I couldn’t hear Duro’s snores; my headache was too loud.

A whisper: “You had a nightmare.”

I hissed, pressing a palm to my forehead.  “Fuck.”

“Break words,” he pleaded.

“On what?”

“Any fucking thing.”

My mouth twitched.  “I once possessed refined speech.”

“Of great importance here,” Duro drawled.

I looked up and offered an apologetic grin; he was sitting up, rubbing his eyes with his cheek braced in palm of hand.  “Crassness,” I acknowledged.  “The gift that yet gives onward.”

He chuckled.  “Happy to be of fucking service!   Er, no -- apologies,” he continued, wide-eyed with mock innocence.  “The _****fucking****_  you must seek from Agron, not me.”

Agron’s long arm shot out, leveling a finger at his brother’s face.  “Close.  Shit-spewing.  Mouth.”

Duro’s jaw snapped shut with an exaggerated _****click!****_  and the muscles in Agron’s arm shifted as his hand drifted toward me.  Fingers trailed over my cheek and I met his gaze, his concern potent and palpable.  We were sitting on the floor.  My ankle was twisted awkwardly under me.  I reached up to pull myself back onto the bench.  Agron moved with me as a fucking shadow, watching.

“I called to you, but you did not wake,” he said softly and I realized I had scared him.

“Did I strike you?”  It was yet dim -- midnight -- and the torches were burning low.  I could not see or feel any blood upon his face, but if there were forming bruises, I would have to wait for daylight to find them.

“No.  You seized up.  As if to break your own teeth.”

“Apologies.”

“A dream?”

“Memory,” I admitted after a brief hesitation.

Duro swung his legs over the side of the bench.  “Marius?”

My head snapped up, a chord struck in my memory.

“Duro!” Agron rasped.

“You spoke of him earlier,” Duro offered, ignoring the warning.

“Did I?”  Yes, that rang true.  “But, no.  It was not him.”  I swallowed and looked down at the brand upon my upturned forearm.  “It was much older.  Something forgotten for a very long time.”

I shivered.

Agron curled himself around me.  Duro left his precious bench and sat close on my other side.  I stared at the smudge of raw flesh -- the mark of the Brotherhood.

“I think… it was the brand.  Burning flesh -- I’ve smelled it before.  Before I came to Rome.  When I was taken, the tents burned and -- bodies in the sand.  My brother cried out for me.  Somewhere beyond sight.  He called my name.  I do not know if he survived beyond that.”

Perhaps I did not want to know his fate.  Perhaps not knowing was kinder.

Agron’s hands were on my shoulders.  Duro placed a palm upon my head.

I gathered myself.  “Apologies.  It was just--I suddenly recalled--it was a long time ago.”  I drew another breath to steady myself.  For Agron and Duro, I ought to be steady.  Strong.  “If I become caught up in it again, do not call my name.  Perhaps… give yours voice.  I will wake.”  There.  Problem resolved.  “Gratitude for… this.  And apologies for disturbing your rest.”

I shifted to stand.

“Where do you think you’re fucking going?” Duro blurted, putting pressure on the top of my head to keep my ass against the bench.

“The floor is--”

“Not holding you tonight,” Agron rumbled.  “We are.  Settle yourself and take rest.”

“With--with both of you?  Like this?”

Duro snorted.  “What other purpose do you think brothers serve, little man?”

I blinked as Agron shifted, drawing me flush with his side.  Duro wedged his shoulder beside mine.  He tilted his head against the wall and his breath puffed across my ear.  Agron leaned his head upon my crown.  I was bracketed by two sets of sprawling legs and a loose weave of long arms.  Skin upon skin.  Warm and heavy and alive and… safe.

I felt safe.

Gods save me.

I closed my eyes before the burn turned into tears.  I clenched my right fist, resisting the pulsing ache of tender flesh and the echo of heat from the brand.

Agron pressed a whiskery kiss to my temple.

Duro snored in my ear.

I was unaware of falling to slumber.  I slept until dawn.  I did not dream again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this first installment, please leave me a kudo. (^_^) Comments would also be treasured beyond measure!
> 
> What was your favorite thing about the story?  
> What is your number one burning question for the next part?
> 
> Your feedback is such an important part of this story. Really and for true.


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